Northeastern bursts, they are explodin’;
violent air’s in; vainly hopin’
that these winds won’t be ill, and so I’m lopin’
out to the storm cellar, a snuggle blankie totin’.
There’s an atmospheric river; all’s got me mopin’.
But you tell me over and over, “No friend, the world won’t end.”
You don’t believe these are the leaves of destruction.

I hear thunder and a mistral on the way.
You say, “No way; this ain’t France where we now stay.”
“Sirocco?” I venture. But that ain’t OK.
My geography’s caved, as I show when I’ve raved.
All around us there is noise, making me lose my poise.
So don’t tell me over and over, “No friend, the world won’t end.”
’cause I do believe these are the leaves of destruction.

In this cellar now we are cohabitatin’;
I’m filled with fear, anticipatin’.
Gusts twist and I rue; I sense our immolation
Gut’s twisted to spew, I sense regurgitation…
pans full o’ stench ’n’ corn from blast inundation.
I’m parched as a bone…desertification;
I’d tackle this sec with inebriation,
but water alone will be my gustation.
There’s no well drinks; eau de vie I no see, open me Evian
and let me grieve after my heaves of eruption.

Drinkin’ up a spate, I’m feelin’ then finer,
but soon I get back ’round to bein’ a tense whiner.
Outside I hear leaves whirling in space.
I’m tense and I squirm; I feel my heart race.
The pounding of leaves comes, then I feel a trace
of air through the bulkhead, blowing in my face.
These leaves ain’t my savior; in fact, they destroy the place.
Then they pelt me, over and over and over again—the end.
We’re both deceased—succumbed to of leaves of destruction.