The Finger writes, and, having writ,
Allows you to read your obit;
Doom gives you the finger,
And says you won’t linger
Much longer in all of this shit.
That Bowl which we call the Sky
Is a covering lid they apply,
Then run out of food and die.
The Big Bang determined the text
Which we read, yet still get perplexed:
Right then encoded
Whatever you’re going to do next.