Party’s coming. Who will buss the tables?
Who’s scheming to slip out back after drinks?
Who will finally, at long last, get served?
Everyone will be there, except for those
Who say they’ve planned out underground escapes,
Which can’t possibly work, of course, because
That’s exactly where the real party is
Planned, a fine, lucullan apocalypse
In glades of bunkers set for centuries!
There will be ham radios and crossbows,
Geiger counters and meals ready to eat,
Lookout towers, cisterns, bespoke hazmat suits.
There will be plenty of guns to keep oiled.
Each night, sterile souls will screw and take turns
At a Decameron, and hope for news.
Oh, what a fine thing it will be to die
With plenty of supplies, but not outside!
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