A week from Friday, when the world may end,
believers will abase their souls in fear,
and I’ll be having dinner with a friend,
discussing how my daughter’s acting queer.
We’ll drink our wine and sample Southern food,
observing both our birthdays while we sit,
but all our talk will concentrate on rude
behavior, foul words, obnoxious snit.

The world may end before we pay our bill
but we’ll enjoy the evening anyway,
for we’re experienced at tragedy.
We’re old enough to watch a tantrum spill
and let the puddle settle where it may,
and let existence end, if that’s to be.