A terrible year has been spent in my home.
So I thought I would share my new terrible poem.
I stare at my arms. I stare at my legs.
I don’t like pandemics, I’m not good with plagues!
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I try to keep busy, inventing new tasks.
I vacuum the oven, I dry clean my masks.
Watching the news for hours every day.
I hope Peter Frampton, will Show me the Way.
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Trying new things, but alas nothing sticks,
You can’t teach this old dog, any new tricks.
Working from home is cruel and it’s mean.
I don’t talk to people, I talk to a screen.
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Houseparty, Facetime Teams or on Zoom,
All different platforms, in the same bloody room.
In pajamas, or will upgrade to my leisure suit.
I say something brilliant, but forgot to unmute.
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You’ve got your problems, got a few of my own,
Where is my charger? Where is my phone?
We all do our best, by staying in touch.
Sorry to those, I have called way too much.
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I’ve done this each day, for one reason only,
Does anyone else, feel a bit lonely?
We still have to live, as life still goes on.
Oh the things that I miss, oh the things that are gone.
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This year in my home, makes me feel residential.
It’s hard to admit, but I’m not quite essential.
But there are some who are, so thanks for your work.
The doctor, the nurses, the trucker, the clerk.
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Each contribution helps make us stronger
We must just continue, a little bit longer.
If you ask if we can, my answer is yes.
Why protesters protest, is anyone’s guess.
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But this virus keeps changing, causing a fuss.
But it’s not about them, it’s all about us.
The science is clear, a simple admission.
The virus needs you, to further its mission.
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As variants rise, the virus gets scarier.
It’s counting on you, cause you are the carrier.
It spreads during days, it spreads during nights.
Hoping your politics, fights for your rights.
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Yes it loves that your theories are very selective.
It counts on your ignorance, ignore the collective.
Cause this virus is ruthless, its trying to survive.
And just like the Bee Gees, it’s Staying Alive.
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But Staying Alive is not hard to do.
Point fingers at others, but never at you.
That finger you point, might be infected.
Blaming others goes viral and frankly expected.
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The virus and vaccines are having a race.
And you can win both if you cover your face.
As essential workers are routinely accosted!
Can we all just agree, that they might be exhausted.
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This poem finally ends, lacking grit and precision.
So it’s now up to you, to make a decision.
Adhere to the science, with conviction not fear.
And we’ll all get together later this year.
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Cue the Blong: Oh the good old days…
Breaking Well 