I can’t help but feel sympathetic
towards those who on the world’s end wax prophetic,
They still jones for a Messianic hero
despite millennia of batting zero.
Some Romans vowed that 634 BC
would mark the end of human history.
Pope Sylvester pledged, “In Y1K,
verily the world shall passeth away.”
Chris Love divined, “In 1805,
a mighty ’quake will leave no soul alive.”
Earth stayed put, leaving Love to take his licks.
The Prophet Hen of Leeds, in eighteen-six,
laid eggs emblazoned with “Christ is Coming.”
(A swindler had diddled the prophet’s plumbing.) 
Reb Sabbati Zevi proclaimed Moshiach twice. 
Right Reverend Cotton Mather struck out thrice.
Brother Harold Camping, went 0 for 6
before he finally zipped his apoca-lips.  
Could we but feel content with what God gave us,
we might not need to kvetch at Him to save us.
“Repent! Repent!” they shout, “or risk hell’s fire!
The end is surely nigh.”
But yours is nigher,
so when again you hear, “The end, it nears!”
the mirror knows: ’tis closer than it appears.