Arrgh ... the angst and anxiety. The hand-wringing and pearl-clutching. Everything's being viewed through the lens of Coronavirus' lead-colored glasses. Grey-skyed doom and gloom.
Well, The Quill isn't happy with this sad, and saddening, state of affairs. Traditionally, the only people this miserable and depressed, and hence prone to such hysterics and hyperbole, are poets. And so, in celebration of the irony, I've written a poem to provide some time-honored wisdom about escaping the doldrums.
The Cure for Coronavirus
Shutdowns and lockdowns, restaurants and playgrounds,
Damn it this damnable virus,
No work and no play, just talk of doomsday,
Wiping your ass with papyrus.
Grows it the panic, so too the manic,
People are losing their minds,
Mental disorders, ass paper hoarders,
Appeals to logic, it blinds.
As reason it fades, mistakes they are made,
Errors in effort to numb,
A glass of Merlot won’t lessen your woe,
… The answer’s a bottle of rum.
Quill
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