O Cassandra, Cassandra
You speak only the truth
But no one believes you
Preferring instead the
Balm of our ignorance

Unheeding your warnings
Only sycophants esteeming
We turn a blind eye while
Clinging to the lie
That flatters

The sky is falling the
Little chicken said
But what if it were true
Falling sky
Rising ocean

We paint our prophets as
Little chickens whose
Strident squawking so
Rudely intrudes on
Contented lives

Our soothsayers we judge as
Silly women spouting
Nonsense while good sense
Cries out as if in the wilderness
Unheard

O Cassandra, Cassandra
You speak only the truth
But no one believes you
Preferring instead the
Balm of our ignorance