Doggerel sages earn no wages,
no health benefits.
Maybe fill three hundred pages.
All the news that shits.
We are like the olde town criers,
rhyming in the night.
He would say we all are liars.
Fake news, just not right.
But someone has to sing the song
of our great country’s fall.
It’s a dirge, which does seem wrong,
called “Up against the wall.”
We climbed this hill, then took that pill,
then all went psychedelic.
The one percent went for the kill.
Our world became a relic.
Oh yes, there’s still folks on the street.
Some cough. Some wear a mask.
It’s not the sound of happy feet.
What’s wrong? Don’t even ask.
The dead are swept away in trucks,
some headed to mass graves.
We, to a man, agree this sucks.
We don’t think Jesus saves.
And as the air grows quiet,
thick with viral deadly spores,
the mass, too sick to riot,
waits for their end, locked indoors.
