By 2050 backers say/insurance rates much hob will play/as global warming inundates/coastal towns and fries farm states/Underwriters all agree/their fees will pass infinity.
In middle age I rarely slept/as a career I madly kept/and now my hair is white and sparse/while sanity I cannot parse/Oh woe is I, senility/begins to creep right up on me/Is it because I banished sleep/that my brain now is cassareep?/How ironic; now I nap/all day long without a gap.
Are paper towels a poison pill/filling up each new landfill?/Or a handy cleanup tool/absorbing every greasy pool?/Either way, can we survive/if and when supplies take five?/Still . . . if you want to save some jack/you're better off with flour sack.
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