Black Bread

my friend said,
"The world i knew is a long time dead
and it won't be coming back!
Black bread
is what is left!"
i felt he was not quite normal,
wearing his lucky charm, acting formal
in spite of the civil wars in Syria and Egypt.
tears kept flooding his eyes;
maybe he clearly saw the lies
blindingly bright in an atomic stupor,
for he kept swatting at his ghost
as it tried offering him a toast
of the finest South American wine:
he thought it was made lousy by design.
i knew our star was in decline
and the glory days were gone forever,
but it all happened in such a short while
when oil refused to flow,
and crops would no longer grow.
to his young boy he solemnly wrote
"The sun gradually consumed the ice..."
but he, of course, was being nice.