Al Gore’s sphincter never fails
To close up tight when he hears tales
Of catastrophic doom delayed
Of free men who are not afraid
O Puckering Al, why do you gloat,
With every iceberg now afloat:
"Tragedy! Hearken to me!
For I’ve been preaching prophesy!"
What will you do if doom’s o’er long?
If Cassandra is just simply wrong?
What would you do if you were free
To invoke the doom you long to see?