The Prophecy of a Tax Collector

End will be on everything
From erotic love to sighs
The time we lend is running
From the Architect of skies

The sun will soon subdue us
And the well will water lack
Epidemics will brew pus
With the steam of earthly crack

Could be rotting there there for weeks
Some are meters deep away
Bodies with the ruble mix
Savor the fumes of decay

All the nation make their rise
Rise of the inhumane rage
Which forms the thick darkened skies
For some nuclear exchange

The profit-based morals
Of unproductive fathers
With irregular bowels
While people eat each other

Cease to plant, the farmers heir
Feel the lowering of yields
Then succumb a curse so fair
Of acidic empty fields

Did you hear the scripture say
Exaggerate of Matthew
Must you clean your soul today
For redemption is for few