Some say the world will end with frost,
some say with fire.
I never have been partial to
predictions dark and dire.

I think the world will end with me,
I cannot see much farther.
So what's the point of worrying
oneself into a lather?

I'll eat and feast and waste and leave
a footprint carbonate and bold.
I'll grill red meat that cost the trees,
condition air too cold.

But when I've gone, let no man
say I haven't done my share
for mother earth, for in my grave
worms shall be feeding there.

This poem won an honorable mention in the January 2012 Poetry Competition at The Oldie (U.K.)