The boy stood on the burning deck / a Burberry flash-guard round his neck / in a handsome, hand cut, tartan check / complementing the rest of his hi-spec / boot-flare / heat-aware / virus-retardant lounge wear

flips his goggles / toggles / through the image finder / to any form of life whatsoever / scans the horizon / his eyes widen / finding no-one and nothing with nowhere to hide in

Calls to his mother / who slowly ascends the ladder / all the way from the sleeping chamber / Darling? Don’t you remember? / she says / giving his crow-black quiff a playful mess / It’s a natural process / The poor go under and what’s left is the best / Don’t distress / yourself, darling / I know it seems alarming / but it’s a bit like farming / you wouldn’t get far / if nothing ever went to the abattoir

But mama, what happens when there’s only us? / When we’ve finally lost all the superfluous? / Who’ll be there to valet park the cars? / Wait our tables in the restaurants and bars? / Organise parties? Tailor our suits? / Craft our patent calf-skin boots? / Who’ll be there in the Dairy Queens / to envy our lives in the magazines?

Oh I’m sure they’ve got it figured out / she said, waving a silver comb about / You really are such a sensitive soul! / Rest assured it’s under control / They’ve got drones and robots to dig the holes / and keep us safe with armed patrols / It’s so sweet of you to think of the proles / Now raise the screens dear and come downstairs / We’ve set up a link with the other billionaires / It’s Sunday night! Caviar and chips! / There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow for your apocalypse