Davis Dreckle met his fellow
doomsday prophet at a fence in the park–
It was dark–the sun yet an hour away.
“My brother,” Dreckle began to say,
“I see the world will end tomorrow;
might I today your handkerchief borrow?”
“Oh my,” his shadowy counterpart sighed,
“My friend, the world it will not end
Until every last tear has been theretofore shed.
And what do you think this handkerchief’s for?
To catch every tear before it hits floor.”
“No more! No more!” Dreckle said with a roar,
“There have been enough tears, there have been enough wars!
It’s time now for the closing score.
Tomorrow it ends so I’ll ask you again:
Will you to me your handkerchief lend?”
To which the reply came: “No.”
Darling Dreckle with his Neck all veiny from his anger thence
Grabbed his friend and shook him, pushed him backward off the fence.
“Tomorrow the world ends, but for you, today,”
a by passer heard dear Dreckle say
to his brother and friend where he now did lay.
And Dreckle departed feeling quite certain
that after tonight drawn would be the curtain.
“But will it end?” asked softly his friend
who as chance would have it, did not die.
“For there are still more tears to cry.”
And he himself shed only two
Which mingled with the morning dew,
For his handkerchief had missed them.
