Take in all the plants, tie down anything that could flyTape up your windows by batteries and candlesFill up your bathtub for dishes to washMake sure you have enough canned goodsDrinking water to last you a week or twoUntil the storm has passedPull out that old Monopoly gameA deck of cards, your cribbage boardBring in all the dry seasoned wood for the stoveGet up blankets, towels, sweaters, warm socksMake sure you have enough cat foodA transistor radioLet your family know you're readyCheck in on your neighbors, call your friendsFill your tank with gasoline for a last resort exit planGet yourself to the safety of an interior roomPut a pillow over your headDon't forget to bring your cell phoneUnplug your whole lifeSlow down your pulseGet as small as you canAnd prayBecause this is the one they've been warning us aboutWhen everything goes outDarkness is declaredWe will finally understandI doubt, I think, therefore I amWhen the singularness of lonelyIs as close as our own voiceWe will be reminded of the pointLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove, love, loveLove loveLove, love, love, love, loveLove, love, love, loveLove, love, love, love, loveLove, love, love, love, loveLove, love, love, love, love*