3121 CE - The Wrapes of Grath

This [will be/has been] written in the future (3121 CE) by our evolutionary progeny (in the ruins left, after our apocalyptic demise) and [has been/will be] sent back to us as a warning, through a war

The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread

when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.

Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned

that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.

The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone

and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone

for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.

Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.

There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,

but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;

they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,

for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.

Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,

slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff

(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);

with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff 

and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;

the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.

The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,

though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch

were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch

exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.

Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill

from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,

then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the kill;

their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.

Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes

left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;

yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes

so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.

Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled

with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.

What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled

when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled? 

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Omg I think I actually popped an eye vessel reading this poem. I truly now fear for our future as mankind falls into idiocracy. Someone please get me President Camacho on line one. And for God sake people of the future read a book! Words are your friends not you enemies. Thank you for this sneak peek into our descent into ignorance that is awaiting our future selves. It was funny if not damn right scary of this really being a possibility. Because it is.