"This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang, but a whimper."
--T.S. Elliot, "The Hollow Men"

In my dream, I was buying milk, I was a ratty Yorkshire terrier.
Paid with a check, a $30.30 balance on November 30th, I’m sure.

This is how. This is how. This is how the world will end.
This is how. This is how. This is now the world will end.

I woke up sore, heavy-breathing plastic in a cold night on an empty street.
Turned on the light—it never was so white before Apocalypse was at our feet.

This is how. This is how. This is how the world will end.
This is how. This is how. This is now the world will end.

Not with a bang, sir. Not with a bang. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Who’s shooting? Who’s maneuvering his cock to line it up with God—who’s blind and deaf?
Dear W, these aren’t Crusades, it’s war, and you’re a gutless little whore at Daddy’s oiled and unforgiving side.
God shakes his head. How many more are dead? He says, "Put down my Book before you shoot!"
And in my dream, the world was in slow motion and we lied down by the ocean (‘til it passed away).

This is how. This is how. This is how the world will end.
This is how. This is how. This is now the world will end.