Apocalypse

No man knows the exact day or hour But charlatans continually preach of an Armageddon stour Over fallow fields they their abrasive treatises scour Softening the hard, unyielding ground as a tidy, careful plower With visions of doomsday they fertile hearts do shower      Their seeds annually spring up as the perennial flower With self-aggrandizing statements, continually their banal egos empower Prophesying the cataclysmic end from their ivory tower Predicting a scourging blight on every shielded bower With their fleecing mantra distill a warning so dour    Ignorant patrons dispossess themselves of temporal treasures and cower With presentiments of fearsome events that will this evil world devour  If only they would throw off the yoke of parochial tenets, emboldening discerning spirits with valour Their hungry hearts would the chaff disperse and process the truthful remnant into a satiating flour