We fret over it
That image on the tube
Spouting out daily travesties
Prepping for advertising interlude
Will the World end?
Our exhaust pipes will tell
Dead fish on the shore
Just one more smell
But we can be grateful
Deniers abound
To add in humor
To the quiet coming round
Soon the screen will be blank
And no tear left to shed
Buildings all vacant
Nothing left to dread
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