Her statement that she’d had a vision
was met by general derision;
so though she tried to warn them all,
they heeded nothing but “last call!”
So while she stocked up her provisions,
they hemmed and hawed with their decisions
and had a round of boozy toasts—
gave their laments, boasted their boasts.
Then they went west while she went east
and thus were eaten by the beast
or overtaken by the flood.
Soaked in water or in blood.
The moral of this little tale
is heed your mystics, or learn to bail
or run faster than the beast
lest you become his morning’s feast
or starve to death in time of drought.
Her warnings met with only doubt
instead of action to stem the tide,
by those who stood as one. And died.
Gotta warn you. Once again, a poem from three years ago. The prompt word today is warning.