A space lab is going to pieces now scheduled to hit earth on April Fool’s Day,
The chances of getting hit by the debris is minimal, but it can occur in a way.
So, on April one, look up at the sky and be prepared to scoot and holler,
For someone, somewhere, will be hit, you can bet your last dollar.
And who can they sue? Provided it is not a permanent hit.
Who can they complain too in a hissy fit?
There is a ton of junk up there, surrounding our planet with junk,
Someone should make a rocket ship and clean it up, if only they had the spunk.
Momma, always said clean up after you played,
NASA hear the warning, it won’t happen if you prayed.
The worse is now occurring in the Pacific Ocean,
An area the size of a small state is rocking with polluted motion.
The air is thick with grim and soot,
It is so thick now that we wear little masks and yet we stay mute.
We are drowning in our tears of killing the earth,
A new generation must come and there will be rebirth.
A man came into the morgue the other day,
He came in the usual way.
On stretcher not breathing having gasped his last breath,
Did he die of an accident or even an over dose of meth?
No, he died from breathing in the air so foul,
His lungs exploded as his life threw in the towel.
He was blue in the face for the lack of air,
But the real crime was in that no one cared.