Utopia

The world is going up in flames
And running out of water too
As we call each other ugly names
And beat each other black and blue.
It's the sort of thing that kills a buzz
Or floats a turd in bowls of punch
And creates fabric pills of fuzz
Or corn chips that no longer crunch.
But bog not your thought with piss poor chance,
As applied to a global survey,
Whilst being grateful for clean pants
As we keep all pathogens well away
From that future for which we yearn
Where hell itself takes an upward turn.