It's a pity my surname is Camping
When predicting the end of our world:
Some think of poles. When they should think of souls,
They imagine some canvas unfurled.
They think of the portaloo journey
And the sounds of a cow coming nearer;
Of the squelch of the mud, and the belch of a buddy
And not of the end of an era.
The bottle of Gaz, nearly empty,
And the way that there’s not enough room:
These are the gripes even hardier types
Consider. They don’t think of Doom.
The rain hurries under their groundsheet;
The midges unclench their small jaws.
When you’re parked in a bog in a slurry of fog
All thoughts of Four Horsemen must pause.
The whole shebang may be all over,
As we cash in our last chips and bucks.
But humans, if saved, having prayed and behaved,
Hope Heaven’s a hotel (de luxe).