got chills, starting to shiver.

Captain Sully, quarantined,

says go jump in the river.

Sheriff Woody feels no goody,

cannot catch his breath.

Jimmy Dugan, from the bench,

feels like he’s caught his death.

Even Mister Rogers

can’t roam through the neighborhood.

And Joe, who fought volcanos,

admits he don’t feel too good.

Scott Turner misses Hooch,

but he would rather see a nurse.

And Josh, the boy who once got “Big,”

now claims he feels much worse.

Sam Baldwin, from Seattle,

says he still has trouble sleeping.

And Charlie Wilson won his war,

but feels the virus creeping.

Even the conductor on the great Polar Express

has cancelled his train run because

he’s feeling quite a mess.

Captain Richard Phillips,

who by pirates was hijacked,

is on a respirator, by COVID-19 attacked.

Chuck Noland, once a “Cast Away,”

now wishes he had stayed that way.

You can’t get virus, none at all,

if your one friend’s a soccer ball.

Lastly, Joe Fox, who’s “Got Mail,”

can’t get to the box, too frail.

Take care of yourself, Tom Hanks.

We love you and offer thanks.

You and Rita, both get well.

You’ve got lots more tales to tell.

They say he’s got more balls than Miley Cyrus.

He’s hanging out with men who’ve been exposed.

“It can’t touch me,” he claims, and case is closed.

He doesn’t drink Corona, so he thinks he is immune.

He’ll grab that virus, tie it up, pow, zoom, up to the moon.

He’s like a super hero who has not a shred of power.

He wears an orange mask that washes right off in the shower.

But he will climb into the ring with dread COVID-19.

“I like a virus old enough to vote. Know what I mean?”

If he is knocked out in the tenth just like Rocky Balboa,

he’ll quarantine at Bloomberg’s scene, American Samoa.

And as the virus tours our country, proud to be the champ,

he’ll sit in sweats with Playboy pets. “Please wipe my face, I’m damp.”

It seemed his medicine would make me mean.

Just to see his mug would make me get the bug.

So, I’m afraid I’ll have to quit his scene.

I’ll spend more quality time with Mike Pence.

Trump may be a wall, but he’s a fence.

You can see right through him in some light.

Creationism’s knight of all things white.

And, for chuckles, there is always Mick,

exiled, off to Ireland, real quick.

Go hang out with Boris and Macron.

There you can get your quid pro quo on.

when we set the clocks ahead four years.

We who lost a lot of sleep aboard the anti-don bus

can now discard our busted hopes and fears.

Waking up the next morn, we’ll remember not the nightmare

which infected months, weeks, days and hours,

casting off the subterfuge and lies so bold and bare,

deliberate misuse of his great powers.

Perhaps when time jumps forward, we’ll restore the reputation

of our country, which was once held in esteem.

Perhaps to his victims we can offer reparation,

and put ourselves back on track for the dream.

to join with mister money on the sideline.

Goodbye to wealth tax thrown into the deep unknown.

Goodbye to child care and student debt guideline.

Her numbers became dire though she threw Mike in the fire,

but the dream of White House woman is on hold.

Perhaps in four more years when the smoke from this one clears

her propositions won’t be shunned but recognized as bold.