Young Writers Society

Ah huh - ah yeah - let’s go,
Now, my folks, you may or may not know
‘Bout the boy who does come and does go
Into the abyss and out,
Circling the roundabout,
Getting an ice cone, cheap,
Walking up a footpath, steep,
When an ant attacked his ankle,
Making ‘em slip on a trippin’ angle

Now you can wonder, asunder, ‘bout the thunder
When under him wandered a blustering a-blunder -
A biker telling a hiker, “Do ya like her?”
When the rider got a cone one-biter
On his face while in a race with a case -
His eyes, proselytised with ice cream dyes,
Quickly surmised that arrived have the cries
Of the bystanders dying, vying, flying a-ways.
As the traffic braced, dazed - for a crazy mess.

Now, a street or two down, a police guard frowned,-
In a parade adorned by eight ministers around
The motorcade-borne great Minister Prime -
Now I don’t even know what on Earth to rhyme -
As a truck came through two buildings built anew
As luck’s bane drew screws from the barricades’ sinews
Around the roundabout where an ant made a boy trip
And manhandled a truck and a bike - due to an icy drip -
That trampled over a duck, a pike - and into the Ministers’ view.

The rash truck smashed into the trash,
And dashed into the stashed police cache,
Then bashed into the hashed ministerial lash
Which gashed and mashed them all to ash -
Meanwhile, the teen whose ice cream’s sheen’s
Been responsible for killin’ and peelin’ the nation’s ceiling
Walked back home, all alone, itching bone to bone -
Unbeknownst that he’d shone to the world - a scarlet tone, -
While the ant’s aunt ranted on ‘bout where on Earth has he been.

What followed was a political parade and debate
And hate that weighed around the fete of death
“Assassinate” - they said - was mandated by a neighbour state -
It did escalate, as the Chief of State waged and campaigned a crusade
Against the incensed and fenced opponent…
Then, somewhere, someone, probably drunk,
Tweeted, “Let’s nuke that stupid piece of junk.”
Then some arrogant politician, like a chipmunk,
Pressed the button and, in fear, hid in his nuclear basement.

It wasn't done with just one, the Suns of Destruction
Were run over by machine guns and after everyone
Had overdone with metric tonnes of Midnight Suns -
Nought was left but barren and wanton devastation…
Pillaged villages… Burned-down towns… Melted metropolises…
Radiated, rusty, ravaged, rotten, razed, rickety Races
Now populated them… Their faces only contained traces
Of the greatness of the people who, let’s confess, invented kindness…
Only eight hundred remain of the eight billion Homo sapiens.

The boy who toyed with his ice cream was eaten alive - raw -
By half-burned, half-churned, half-famished, half-dead jaws,
The drone ant who nuked the world, died after mating - an outlaw,
No, you might remark on this with a lowered brow or a guffaw,
But eh - what had you expected from a brain-dead bobsled of bloodshed
Embedded with a shade of widespread nonsense as the title’s aforesaid?