Under lockdown no more
John Carr mirrors the collective psyche of a country eager yet cautious to crawl back to near-normalcy.
As I find when I rub the fuzz
Of sleep from eyes and stagger to
The place where the first thing I do
Is look in the mirror with a start
And ask myself, “Who’s this old fart
And why doth he still walk the earth?
His poetry is hardly worth
The paper he scribbles it on
To e-mail it to all and anon,
Whether they want it or not,
But are too polite to call it rot.
What impertinence! Who is he
To make such light of misery?”
But I sit here and telework
Away from every noisome jerk,
Or pick up my guitar and pluck
The strings to lament our bad luck.
E major, minor, C diminished,
O when will this ordeal be finished?
Yes, whinge I can, but in the end
It all depends on how we bend
Our necks to this necessity;
We gotta get used to being unfree
At least for now, till in God’s good time
I can pen a happier rhyme.
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