The talking heads illuminate the dead.
But nothing that they say has any cred.
The numbers are not taken as a fact.
The word of this decade might be ‘redact.’
With snow about to glisten,
only half the people listen.
The unmasked versus masked
are like two teams,
who battle late at night
inside our dreams.
In very worst nightmares,
it’s as if not one soul cares.
The protesters with guns
descend en masse like Huns.
‘Don’t take our rights away,’
they’ll scream with plague in play.
They act the pioneer.
A mask might make them queer.
They must go to the gym.
The virus is a whim.
They’ll party on though thousands
are still dying.
Inside closed houses,
relatives are crying.
The new talk on developing vaccines
until next year is just a hill of beans.
And now, alas, another complication.
Our leader’s gone on permanent vacation.
And if he tries a coup, there’s nothing we can do.
Stay tuned to this apocalyptic station.