declared by King Fuckwad.

But the virus doesn’t care.

It can’t be killed by god.

While we’re on our knees,

praying to a vapor,

and trying not to sneeze,

we still need toilet paper.

And as we ask for spirit help

to keep us from the dead,

we’d be better off on Yelp,

looking to buy bread.

Pray to Yahwe. Pray to Christ.

Beg the Lord of Karma.

Pray a vaccine is low-priced

by the gods of pharma.

Pray for rapture. Pray for rain.

Keep your social distance.

Pray that you don’t die in pain.

At the king’s insistence.

All your praying may distract

from just who is at fault,

King Fuckwad, who was slow to act,

sealed in his germ-free vault.

Pray, pray, he’ll say, from your t.v.,

the lord will surely listen.

But in our sick reality,

it’s certain god is missin’.

The bear just ate the market as part one of a forthcoming compensation.

The virus is like Bernie Sanders, taking down the richest of the rich.

Oh my god, look at this week’s Dow Jones and tell me we’re not in a ditch.

They’ve tossed their sense and sane aside to coast on this swamp’s waterslide.

And now when the tsunami hits, they’re playing with their nasty bits.

The king of vague insults the plague and all the foreign elements who sowed it.

Two weeks ago, it was a hoax and weaker than the flu. He said he knowed it.

And now, caught with his pants down, he is spinning webs of dross in monotone.

He’s empty and he’s evil and he’s now out on dark death’s limb all alone.

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.”