First of July,
Still asking why.
There’s people about,
Mass murder await.
Covid’s causing such a trap,
A chiralic depression constraining my rack.
No new pair’s,
Just whining and shrinking.
Corona corona on the wall,
Virus killing old and poor,
If someone says it’ll fix the weak,
I’m going to spew – it’s just too deep.
Yes perish the thought,
Bury the desire.
Of changing course,
Although they defy ya.
The fickle Olds,
The clumsy oafs.
The stubborn oomsayers,
With their defiant ‘opes
When will they
Watch their whitch.
Or sound a feeling,
Repeating a pitch.
Listening to their digestive tract,
Twist their bodies bending this that.
Finding where they went wrong.
And what would have been – a better song.