Early this morning in New York City the Apocalyptic Poet rose
He wrote down that the sun comes up when Susie hangs her clothes
So that's what happened and people wondered why it rose at 9:18
Except for the poet who knew he wrote it 'cause he thought Susie was clean
But how much good can one man write?
Everyday and every night?
It's the end of the world
It's bound to be the end of the world
It's bound to be the end of the world for you and me
For you and me
For you and me
Later that day in New York City the Apocalyptic Poet wrote
How he hated his abilities and thought the world was a joke
And as his pen left the page the streets began to crack and cave
And everyone around him screamed it's just another earthquake
Then the first few buildings fell and he unleashed all of his hell
It's the end of our world
Yeah it's the end of our world
It's bound to be the end of the world
Wiped out in ink
Wiped out in ink
As more buildings began to crumble Susie cried before my eyes
Stumbling into my arms as the fires crept and came inside
She asked me if I'd close the door but I didn't see the point
But I shut it for the end of the world
I shut it for the end of the world
I shut it for the end of the world