One of my friends heard that up there, in the circles close to heaven,
Though, naturally, heaven itself has not confirmed the news so far,
It was decided that the old project, while beyond any doubt central,
Did not quite work out and we will, as of the day that is yet to come,
Be excused from suffering.
Rumour has it women’s labour will be almost pleasant, sort of ticklish,
And toddlers will grow alien to the teething problem. Dotage is not to call
For a stick or a wheelchair anymore, being quite capable
To dress without help and jog ten miles flat-out, just for the hell of it.
Pangs of love, ever so trendy with broad public and poets
Will transmute into a broad choice of flavours and scents
Thus far better agreeing with both tyros and advanced players.
If we are to believe what has leaked to us,
Shortly we’ll fall short of all hues of misery.
It comes out of the blue, literally; and we won’t procrastinate the answer.
Them upstairs must know we all coincide it is for the better
And truly hope the amendments will not be transitory.
Sting in the tail, the air kisses our ears, does come along
But that’s quite a different story.