There is, wrapped in the mist of time,
A race that always tried to climb
Until they reached the very top,
But, alas, all things must drop.

And as in nature, all things must;
That mighty race,is turn to dust.
Of all those beings. so angelic
There is left now just one old relic,

Of ancient times, of days gone by -
Of amighty race that had to die.
People,,who worked by rule of thumb
Before the day of the Gamma Bomb,

When all,the world was laid to waste-
Great mountains turned to oqzing paste;
And deserts turned to shimn*i glass,
And glowing seas like boiling brass.

So, where were we during this war?
Why, we were hidden, waiting for
The time when dust filled, skies would raise
Their custody upon the days:-

When we from the moon return,
When no more dust out can burn:-
When Earth's green fields once more we tread,
When we return to bury dead,

For theres no more a human race
No one will see a human' face,
For we, yes we are mutants all;
Arising from the human fall,

To take our place upon the Earth
That scarred and ancient place of birth.
Now, some of us are giant rats,
Some are eagles, wolves, and bats;

But all of us casualties
Of wartime bombs. Even the fleas-
Have grown so large that man would find,
If he were still around, his mind

Would burst from trying to recognise
The creature with the bright red eyes,-
Just like a rat, but much too large;
Long toothed, furry, but like a barge.

It is a pity that man is dead,
We rue the fateful day life fled
From frail and ageing human bones
Now fossils 'neath the melted stone.

But p'raps it's better this is so,
For there is nowhere now to go
For those who gave us, it is said,
A better life, but now are dead.

So mourn ye all who gather here;
Remember this, but know no fear:
For it was natures mighty plan
That death should come at last to man!

P

.Paddon 4