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A Love Letter to The Captain
The playgrounds are empty;
The hospitals are full.
Captain Trips is here—
There’s nothing we can do.
There are just too many bodies
For only one bed.
I can hear the Monster Shouter screaming,
“Bring out your dead!”
They want us to stay inside
To help them flatten the curve.
Maybe this is all karma—
Just what we deserve.
We suffer from the strain
Of COVID-19,
And slowly go insane
From social distancing.
The sports are gone,
The concerts quiet.
Too much more
Could spark a riot.
No one saw this coming
Despite the writing on the wall.
It was always “when” not “if”,
This fate we would befall.
It’s quiet now in Jungleland
As we adjust to the new norm.
We’re writing our own epitaph
As we seek Shelter from the Storm.
The beaches are abandoned—
You can hear the Night Surf.
Step outside and you might think
That you’re the last person on earth.
From Arnette to Ogunquit—
From Arnette to Ogunquit—
And Vegas out to Boulder,
In New York and L.A.
The fever burns a little colder.
They say Don't Dream It's Over—
That we shouldn't Fear the Reaper.
Is it the Eve of Destruction?
The darkness grows deeper.
We’re antisocial socialites
All across the nation.
We love to hate and hate to love
In silent isolation.
We’re led by narcissistic sycophants—
Solipsistic dilettantes.
Puerile pedants and
Misanthropic hypocrites
Who care more about money
And their corporate bottom lines,
Than the millions who will suffer
For a greed so blind.
It all starts at the top—
That’s where it all comes from.
The WHO and CDC say
The worst is yet to come.
Still we Stand and salute
The American Flagg,
With Sympathy For The Devil:
Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?
