Or so says mister bungle, our head prick.

Don’t worry ’bout the spread,

we don’t want business dead.

So let it kill the weak, like Mitt or Mick.

You’ll walk into a store that’s full of germs.

No coughing while inside. Those are the terms.

Your hairdresser, say, may look three shades of gray,

and croak, “we’ve got a special now on perms.”

Or maybe you need certain kinds of juices.

You jump onto a tram filled with papooses.

Then go in to a shop that’s filled with COVID pop,

and decorated, ceiling down, with nooses.

Oh look, the market’s surging back ahead.

They’re bidding on the bodies of the dead.

Before a carcass swells, they make quite fine hotels,

not fancy, just a bodybag-like bed.

And, back on top are gasoline and oil.

It’s best to burn a corpse and not to boil.

The theatre is back on, but don’t go to the john.

Afraid what’s in there might the third act spoil.

‘Normal’ life will brim with the excitement.

Down the road there will be an indictment.

We knew we should have hidden,

but did as we were bidden.

A barren planet was his mad entitlement.