The Ballade of Armageddon

The planet ricochets to prophets’ chants

and I am forced to only half-mistrust

what Nostradamus fished from out his trance

and revelations bishops have discussed.

Does everybody think they’ve got it sussed,

shrugging with dismissive looks askance?

And worst of all, as this would be unjust,

what if the world expires before my chance?


What if someone has a tiff with France

and coats it in fluorescent sickly dust

or buries Greece without a second glance

before I’ve taken all your crap and thrust

it back up all your backsides in disgust,

before I’ve tripwired your robotic dance

so, from the floor, you sit and stare and rust?

What if the world expires before my chance?


What if humanity’s vainglorious prance

is sucked so free of substance that it just

collapses like a boil beneath a lance,

collapses in the nuclear-wintry gust,

before I’ve hacked to shreds, as hack I must,

the smug remarks, the nevers and the can’ts

you thought would push me to declaring bust?

What if the world expires before my chance?


Prince or politician, I’m not fussed,

you’re all as dead as love and Martian plants.

But I won’t lie here bleeding and concussed.

What if the world expires before my chance?






From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger:


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i can’t believe it, there i was replying to another member saying what if
and your poem is another source of inspiration, boy this place still has some magic left, at least for me. busy weekend ahead!

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