I think a little poetry is in order

POEM

I demand that the human race
cease multiplying its kind
             and bow out
             I advise it

And as punishment & reward
for making this plea I know
              I'll be reborn
              the last human
Everybody else dead and I'm
an old woman roaming the earth
               groaning in caves
               sleeping on mats

And sometimes I'll cackle, sometimes
pray, sometimes cry, eat & cook
                 at my little stove
                 in the corner
"Always knew it anyway,"
                 I'll say
And one morning won't get up from my mat

Jack Kerouac, 1962