The Lawn Sprinklers of Judgement Day

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You packed your ceramic mugs inside a Mayflower box
While the skies turned a sulfurous red over Cedar Locks
You said my emotional range was a cul-de-sac path
As a wandering meteor grazed the neighbor's birdbath
I kept the receipt for the wicker patio chair
You kept your dignity, I kept your lingering hair
The air-raid sirens were blowing across the cul-de-sac
But you just complained that my stance was un-civic and lax.

Oh, the world is expiring in three-quarter time
You are sorting the spice rack and keeping the lime
I am losing my mind while the heavens collapse
And you are tallying lawnmower maintenance gaps
It is a very polite little apocalypse, dear
We were finished long before the sky turned to ash this year.

You cited subsection four of our informal pact:
No weeping while separating the kitchen artifacts
The tectonic plates shifted underneath the sod
While you handed me back my copy of Richard Dawkins' God
I brought up that weekend we spent in Quebec
As a fireball landed squarely onto the deck
You swept up the embers with prissy, administrative disdain
And grumbled that fallout would ruin the mahogany grain.

And I know that the seventh trumpet is sounding for doom
But you are busy vacuuming soot in the dining room!
From the edge of eternity down to the asphalt street
Every empire will fall and every proud ego defeat!
Yet you are furious I did not return your spare house key
As the boiling Atlantic swallows the sycamore tree!
I loved you through winters, I loved you through suburban decay
But you removed my name from the Netflix account today!

Pass the canned peaches
Mind the sinkhole near the driveway
Set the security alarm for eight... or don't bother
Goodbye, my love
The lawn sprinklers are still running
On their automatic timer.

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© Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR! You packed your ceramic mugs inside a Mayflower box While the skies turned a sulfurous red over Cedar Locks You said my emotional range was a cul-de-sac path As a wandering meteor grazed the neighbor's birdbath I kept the receipt for the wicker patio chair You kept your dignity, I kept your lingering hair The air-raid sirens were blowing across the cul-de-sac But you just complained that my stance was un-civic and lax. Oh, the world is expiring in three-quarter time You are sorting the spice rack and keeping the lime I am losing my mind while the heavens collapse And you are tallying lawnmower maintenance gaps It is a very polite little apocalypse, dear We were finished long before the sky turned to ash this year. You cited subsection four of our informal pact: No weeping while separating the kitchen artifacts The tectonic plates shifted underneath the sod While you handed me back my copy of Richard Dawkins' God I brought up that weekend we spent in Quebec As a fireball landed squarely onto the deck You swept up the embers with prissy, administrative disdain And grumbled that fallout would ruin the mahogany grain. Oh, the world is expiring in three-quarter time You are sorting the spice rack and keeping the lime I am losing my mind while the heavens collapse And you are tallying lawnmower maintenance gaps It is a very polite little apocalypse, dear We were finished long before the sky turned to ash this year. And I know that the seventh trumpet is sounding for doom But you are busy vacuuming soot in the dining room! From the edge of eternity down to the asphalt street Every empire will fall and every proud ego defeat! Yet you are furious I did not return your spare house key As the boiling Atlantic swallows the sycamore tree! I loved you through winters, I loved you through suburban decay But you removed my name from the Netflix account today! Oh, the world is expiring in three-quarter time You are sorting the spice rack and keeping the lime I am losing my mind while the heavens collapse And you are tallying lawnmower maintenance gaps It is a very polite little apocalypse, dear We were finished long before the sky turned to ash this year. Pass the canned peaches Mind the sinkhole near the driveway Set the security alarm for eight... or don't bother Goodbye, my love The lawn sprinklers are still running On their automatic timer. © Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR!

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