by Nick Gisburne
The Four are far too busy to attend
They send a fifth, the Postman, in their stead
He brings a message heralding the end
Apocalypse, tomorrow, straight ahead
Acknowledging that this is not for him
A job he only took to earn a crust
He wonders if a uniform so grim
Could ever gain the screaming public’s trust
Delivering his telegram of doom
The Postman reads the contents of the card
The world and all its sinners should assume
The future will be smoky, slightly charred
He marks it ‘Undelivered, gone away’
Apocalypse can wait for one more day
