As the older man looked out his fifth floor window

It was easy to tell which direction this would go

The storm surge forced the waters constant rising

It left him kind of breathless, though hardly surprising

The young man suggested it was archaic to pray

And after all it was the old man who chose to stay

The old man fell to his knees without disputing anyway

Thinking it wiser to pray on that particular day

The young man filled with anxiety leapt into the street

With that bad decision it was his fate he would meet

When it was all over, the young man was found

Clinging to a wooden cross the flood had brought around

The old man was found with a look of peace on his face

As though he was satisfied that he had somehow found grace