upon his throne he curled.
A brave new world, free of strife;
undisturbed, no discord heard,
a kingdom free of life.
William's crown was made of bone,
scrimshawed. Grim lord,
sat on a skeletal throne.
He never knew his parents were to blame.
A generation, venerated
by the world they set to flame.
They engineered a disease:
scarily viral, a downward spiral.
The world doomed by a sneeze.
Death to anyone mature.
Before puberty, mere sterility,
and, of course, no cure.
A world of orphans, grown
'til William remained, alone.
A little bad, post apocalyptic poetry. Sorry, it won't happen again. Probably. ;)