Political statesmen's bicker throughout the land
That there isn't enough money to see us through
Religious fanatics sprout doom and gloom
It's the end of the species we call 'us'
Simpletons such as me, don't know who to believe

Farmers grow their crops
Milkmaids sell their cheese
The butcher slices his ham
Candlemaker's looks for more lye
And I stockpile each of their wares

The cellar is full
Fruit and vegetables for a year
Ground flour, wheat, rice, sugar and packets of seeds all there
Twenty-two dozen candles if not more
All bond and tied in pretty red ribbons

I cling to the past; yet see a glimmer of hope
The new millenium is just three days away
Those crazy crusaders shall bring home the Silver
Armageddon did not occur at the end of last hundred years
The Twelfth Century shall end all Wars, famine; a cure for the Black
Death is in the works; and women shall have equal rights.

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