Infectus

 

 

 

Infectus

With apologies to William Ernest Henley

 

Behind the mask that covers me

As I wander from store to store,

I mutter a curse to the gods that be

For this panicky pandemic bore.

 

In the fell clutch of quarantine

I’ve winced and whined and moaned.

Stuffed my face with fattening cuisine

And spent my days and nights dead-stoned.

 

In the paper towel aisle,

An empty shelf stretches forth.

Looks like it’s going to be a while

Before the Bounty comes to port.

 

I can’t go see the Rolling Stones

Or watch the Braves on Fox Sports South.

Nothing but Twitter on the ol’ iPhone

Where you-know-who is running his mouth.