Been mulling Lindorff on the end of the world,
Looking quite spiff' with my hair new-curled.
For to face humanity's upcoming extinction,
Your 'do is a must to add some distinction.
Dave's science guys give us nine years or ten,
Because of the egg from that big methane hen
Known as the Arctic and disguised as a sea,
Where Russians sink subs and reindeer do pee.
Methane the Hen feels her chick shake a leg,
And shifting her weight as circumstance' beg,
From the world down under lets fly the fartation,
Which little by little makes ozone tarnation.
But of course the question's not nine years or ten,
Or fifteen or twenty, though you can depend
On the chick's full hatching before fifty years,
And then we're all looking at cans without beers.
You've heard the old joke that the prob's not the fall,
But the stop at the end which has the most gall.
With the upcoming chapter, that ain't at all so,
The fall itself is what delivers the blow.
Ten years pre-end there's no steak in the fridge,
No popcorn in buckets, fresh water a smidge.
School's out for kids 'cause there's nothing to teach,
'Cept how to whack others when they've got the reach.
Nuke plants will melt as the rivers heat dry,
Freeing radiation for your next fish fry,
No YouTube, no Google, no Kraske with rhymes,
No light and no meds for just nickels and dimes
There's an upside, y'know, if it's consolation:
Houses for cheap, a DIY nation,
No tax, no ads, no lawyer to deceive ye,
No nagging cell phone nor Donald's "Believe me."
If I were the captain of this errant craft,
I'd keep the folks comfy and sink the last raft,
Which might just be happening on the QT,
Hence video-game truth and a fudge of beauty.