Before the end, the town was calm. No cold panic, no alarm. The pubs rang out with "Auld Lang Syne" as a politician tossed a coin. It was normal. Before the end, the children played while old men watched them from the shade. Bemoaned the heat, the price of tea, discussed perverse psychology. Normal... A-OK. Before the end, in a darkened room, Tom waited for his best girl June. Fingers crossed, he quietly prayed. "Lie down," he whispered; she obeyed. It was normal. Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies. A tissue, a tissue, all fall down. 'Cos we're normal. Before the end, in a crowded store, Miss Demeanor broke the law. Shifty eyes, sleight of hand, slipped up a sleeve a sardine can. Naughty (tsk tsk) but normal. Before the end, in a cramped bedsit, George slid a razor cross his wrist. Bloody jeans, tearful eyes, unhooked the phone, fed the mice. Nasty. Before the end, in a cushioned pod, Mr. Dial-a-Prophet looked for god. Flaming throne to slice the sky for mankind's last united cry. "We're normal! Can't happen to us! We're normal!" (It can't happen to us!)