All we can do is twitch the curtains,
To hopefully see some movement,
But no such luck, as we’re cooped up,
No omen of any improvement.
Though some of you will smile,
As you’ll rest, after your door locking,
For the rules dictate that assuredly,
There won’t be any door knocking.
So, the sweets will remain in the tin,
Acting as the dead that lay in dirt,
As sanctified division prolongs
With our social hurt.
Certain girls can only “tart it up”
In the confines of their home,
A “one woman gothic fashion show”,
Not much of a merry tome.
Ghoulish specials are on the box,
But you’ve seen it all before,
Thus, you turn it off, to drink fake blood,
And reflect upon the floor.
Then you’ll pick up a newspaper,
Reminding you of true horror,
That every day is now the same,
What’s today, is now tomorrow.
Though these things add up,
To make a sorry morbid list,
This thing in the air won’t last,
We have a duty to persist.
But until we see that light,
We are told to behave,
So, no cackles, no howls,
Be as silent as the grave.