Folklore for the Apocalypse

Here is the church,

here is the steeple,

open the doors,

where are the people?

 

Hear the tocsin,

hear the bell,

know the toxin

by its smell.

 

Ring a ring o’ razors

with muggers wearing blazers:

a tissue, a tissue

of lies falls down.

 

See the bishop in his mitre,

such a lucky, lucky blighter;

none to see his secret sin,

or the safe he keeps it in.

 

Here is the mosque,

here is for prayer,

insult the muezzin,

if you dare.

 

See the mullah in his madhab

he will never mention jihad,

nor the dreadful, endless hells

awaiting all those infidels.

 

Mary had a little lamb,

and Little Bo Peep stole it:

Now we have a holy war

just as we foretold it.

 

“Fire! Fire!” Missus Dyer.

“Where, Where?” Mister Blair.

“In the East,” Reverend Feast,

“In the Kush,” Mistuh Bush.

 

(Fear in the church,

afraid of the people,

behind the doors

and under the steeple.)

 

It will not end with a bang,

nor even with a whisper,

just with the pop from the weasel’s gun

and the matter from a blister.

 

To the sound of the piper’s whistle,

his motley’s button-hole a thistle,

we will skip, and we will dance

and follow him in the Totentanz.

 

Here is the world,

here is its ending,

open the gates

beyond defending.