The End Is Near said every sign
Every Saturday. They came,
Forecasting death and sometimes rain.
Their name was Legion, just the same
As ever. If you had a home,
You wouldn’t come, predicting rain,
I thought, but that was foolishness.
One wore a bed sheet, one a kilt,
And you a tablecloth or lace.
You warned of blood which would be spilt
And drank your chocolate milk, a fault
Indigenously out of place,
But loveable. The girls displayed
The follies of their fashioning,
And gawkers liked the sight they made
And joined in on the final sing.
Death advertised its local sting,
Picturesque and a little lewd.
The sting was in your parlor, stuffed
With bread and money, left a card
There on the mantel, never left
The doorway where it knocked too hard,
As if no one had ever heard
Or ever wept or ever laughed.
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