Me thinks the reaper be, not too far behind.
A specter not foreboding, his deeds not all unkind.

Did I ever tell you my loathsome friend of what has yet to be?
The falling of your heavens and the boiling of your sea.

How the dead will not suffer the living to pass.
Or how the sun will scorch your fields of grass.

The dogs of war will howl when the moon turns to blood.
Screams of woe will die in vain in black volcanic mud.

Anubis will awaken to drink of the Niles tears.
While Odin's in Valhalla, where he'll stay for many years.

These events they will transpire and there's one thing you can do.
You can have a drink and dance my friend, accept you are the fool.

No summer breeze to quell your pain no balm left Gilead.
You are but a Hector in that cursed book the Iliad.

There is a thing you can try but this task you mustn't botch.
I can't stop the earth from splitting but could you get for me a scotch?
On the rocks.
No lime.