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Last Minutes
March 24, 2008
Putrid screams are heard
As a world is destroyed
And as a thousand black, infected fibers
Crush the work of many years
Knowing the dawn of doom is nigh
They run and try to hide
But it does little good
Against their approaching end
Like a pebble beneath a boulder
Their utopia crumbles
As the bells of agony toll
Eventually, they too fall
The proprietor examines his work
He is pleased with his own wickedness
As he strolls casually away from the apocalyptic scene
Thinking how fun it is to step on anthills
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