[FOsen]

The man who had foretold collective fates
For decades in the square, for all to hear,
At some point wearied of predicting dates;
His sign now read, “The World Will End—Next Year.”
Which made some sense, at least, since he’d retired
A score of placards and revised his rants
As one by one, each doomsday had expired.
The local children heckled all his chants,
But Gran had made me swear I never would.
I’d sworn, but then I’d wanted to know why;
She'd reasons, she had said, and they were good.
I pressed her one day, as we passed him by;
The man was raving, loony, always wrong,
He was a public nuisance and a dunce.
“Aye, but,” she'd said, and hustled me along,
“He only has to get it right the once.”

Frank