Millennial doom pulls up right outside,
Burbles to silence and pauses a while;
Sweeps from the door like a winter tide;
Stands in the road to check his file:

He gathers the dawn round a sputtering torch;
A glance at her gate, then his clipboard too;
Marches towards her pathetic porch;
Rings the bell without further ado.

Alone in the bathroom, she curses the sound,
Shuffles about in the bubbly steam,
Stretches a little, settles back down,
Closes her eyes and resumes her dream.

Doom is impatient: he tries the door,
A chilly draught tormenting his gown.
He growls, then gives an icy roar,
Smashes it open and flings it down.

She's hardly awake before Doom is right there,
Spitting with rage and glaring bright red.
She faints as she realises someone knew where
She was Tuesday night: she drowns, she is dead.

Millennial Doom ticks off one more name;
He trots down the stairs and laughs at the door.
It's not quite that Doom is enjoying the game,
Just that his love is for keeping the score.