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A Covod porm


A comment on these times!

A poem by By James McCarthy

The fifteenth of March seemed a nondescript day,

although something was festering far, far away.

It may or may not have escaped from a lab,

(but make no mistake; it would end in a jab).

Morton was working a job he could stand.

“That’s odd,” he said plainly. “My throat feels like sand.”

It was prickly and tickly and surely quite mild.

“It is the cold season,” Morton said, and he smiled.

Then he went back to doing the things you could do

before things were decided for you by the WHO.

But he made a mistake, and a grave one at that:

He turned on the telly. There was talk of a bat.

Lots of them! Dead ones! For sale on the street!

“They’re teeming with germs,” POTUS said in a tweet.

“Oh dear,” muttered Morton, clutching his neck.

All of a sudden, he was feeling a wreck.

The telly-man said he should not go outside,

he should not go to Target or get his hairs dyed.

‘Twould be good if he could shun the whole human race,

and he abso-must-lutely start covering his face.

He listened intently; did as he was told,

because Morton very much wanted to grow old.

That bat-bug was nasty, the whole world could see.

It was hell-bent on wiping out humanity!

So, Morton masked up and he cancelled his plans,

and got extra obsessive about washing his hands.

The telly-man told him that good things were coming;

around the whole world, you could hear a faint humming.

It rumbled and rattled, then turned to a roar;

why hadn’t somebody done this before? 

They’d made a vaccine, he could get it for free!

Now he would be protected from sure misery!

What’s more, with a shot, he could unwrap his face.

He could see other people, he could go anyplace!

He could have Christmas dinner with Bob and his wife

and visit with Grams without risking her life!

So, he covered his mug and he rolled up his sleeve,

for himself and his dog and his fat old Aunt Eve.

“Getting a jab is the right thing to do,”

he’d shout at his neighbors, his face turning blue.

When Morton heard folks were refusing the shot,

he basically told them he hoped they would rot.

“You’re mean and you’re selfish and dumb as a stump

and I know for a fact that you voted for Trump!”

One day, the telly-man had some bad news.

“One shot is as good as a badly-burnt fuse.

Without two, you’re risky; a threat to mankind.

We’ll give you a donut—or two—for your time!”

The orders came down from a doctor named Ouchie;

If anyone scorned his demands, he’d get grouchy.

Again, Morton did what he needed to do,

and his arm turned a perfectly purplish hue.

“I got it, you guys! I got number two!”

he boasted on Facebook. “And you all should, too!”

The next day, a freakishly weird thing occurred:

All Morton’s words began coming out slurred.

His face was half frozen, half all-falling-down;

his lips seemed to be stuck in a misshapen frown.

I certainly wonder what could be the cause?

he mused as he noticed the rash on his paws.

And his head—it was splitting, a deafening pain.

He felt quite as if he’d been hit by a train!

But Morton had no time to dwell on his ills;

the telly-man’s words had him covered in chills.

“Two shots, don’t you know, are as useless as one.

You must get a third; do not walk, soldiers. RUN!”

Some people were saying the shots might be bad—

might even be causing the symptoms he had!

Nonsense like that really made Morton crabby.

There was nothing but magic inside of that jabby!

He was positive, sure of it, down to his bones,

there was nothing in there messing with his hormones.

Sure, young kids were suddenly dropping from strokes.

But safe-and-effective! You can trust science, folks!

What else could he do? There was no other answer.

So what if it tripled his chances of cancer?

Morton was part of the poked-and-proud crowd.

Changing your mind simply wasn’t allowed.

Somewhere around jab four or jab six,

the telly-man dropped a new shit-ton of bricks.

“Whether sixteen-times-poked or not prodded at all,

you still need a mask to buy crap at the mall.

And maybe this holiday folks shouldn’t gather;

If you do, you could die. Is that what you’d rather?”

For a second year running, Morton holidayed alone.

He wished Merry Christmas to his family by phone.

He woke up one morning not feeling too well,

and realized he’d lost all his taste and his smell.

He’d gotten the virus! The deadly disease!

He crawled into bed with a feverish wheeze.

From there Morton fell into a pit of despair.

“I did all the things! This just isn’t fair!

They told me those jabs would keep everyone well.

And you, Dr. Ouchie? You can go straight to hell!”

It’s true that poor Morton was falling apart;

the slurring had turned to some pains in his heart.

“It’s just inflammation, no biggie,” Doc said.

“Now roll up your sleeve and lay down on this bed.

It’s booster day, son. It won’t cost you a dime!

It’s painless and safe, you’ll be done in no time.”

“You know what?” cried Morton, his voice fiery mad.

“I’m sick of this bullshit! The whole world’s gone mad!

These vaccines of yours, they simply don’t work.

I know ‘cuz I took them. I feel like a jerk!

You bribed and you lied. It was all a big scam!

You’ve raked in your billions. You don’t give a damn

that people are dying and getting quite sick

from your unconstitutionally mandated prick.

I’m not taking another! You hear me? Not one!

You couldn’t convince me if you pointed a gun

at the tip of my temple and threatened to shoot it.

You’re corrupt to the core and you cannot refute it!”

Some folks down the street couldn’t miss Morton’s shouting.

And most of them, frankly, had already been doubting

the lies that the telly and Ouchie had told

about a virus that for most was as mild as a cold.

They rushed to high-five their courageous new leader,

each promising to be Morton’s loudest cheerleader.

They made signs and t-shirts: “I call my own shots!”

“My body, my choice!” “They’re not ‘just’ blood clots!”

Morton was happy but still suffering a lot

of the horrible side-effects caused by that shot.

He heard of a lawyer who was suing the WHO

and he whipped off a two-worded letter: Me too!

“Not safe, not effective,” the court finally said.

“Quite frankly, you’re lucky that you aren’t dead!”

Morton went home with a big pile of cash, 

and waited for the rest of the narrative to crash.

It didn’t take long; that thing was quite frail.

Best of all, Ouchie was going to jail!

As the world bid adieu to the king of the liars,

people danced in the streets and burned masks in great fires.

The pandemic was over! They could live without fear!

They could go to a bar! They could order a beer!

They could do all the things that free people can do

when they’re no longer being controlled by the WHO.