Bird Dung of Doom

The prophets forewarned us in ancient words Of monstrous, metallic, reptilian birds Igniting skies with a flight of fire: Below them the smoke of charred Earth will spire. These death-pterodactyls are coming true: Their pilots turn bleak the horizons of blue, Sleek avian avatars, spilling down Their droppings that cinder the field and town. The creatures themselves are consumed in flame, And man is a dinosaur, obsolete-name, Forgotten as prophesied, slain by sleek Low-swooping pteranodons, bones-in-beak.