Rage, rage, my ovaries have exploded. Rage, I like to eat babies. Rage against the machine, my mother slammed me as a baby and now I want her dead. Kitchen. Kitchen full of knives. Shall I eat them, too, or will that give me heartburn? Death. Death...death and manatees. I choose the former, for the latter are slimy to the touch. Rage against the fish, the fish, the blasted salmon that swim upstream. Why can't I do it too?!... Death. Death and monkeys...The first is as fun as a barrel of the second.
Poets have angst. Quite often too much.
A large, spaceborne rock usually hell-bent on running into us and burning up in our atmosphere. Only very rarely do they ever make it anywhere near the Earth's surface. When they do, the results are usually rather catastrophic.
Unfortunately, a number of lame recent movies have popularized the idea of "death by spaceborne object".
For more information, read "Lucifer's Hammer."
That's a big meteor, but it'll still burn up in the atmosphere