Change the movie, merge the text,
Convert the painting, I’m too vexed
To give a toss – and too distressed
To notice genre, or show the least respect
For form, phonology or bloody georgics.
And as for pyrrhic, meter and phonetics
You can stuff them up the old Homeric epics.
I’ve had enough of viruses and isolation,
I’m in need of proper conversation.
My Zoom has gone, and so’s my email.
Life’s become a monologue, a sort of tragic wail
Against the Covid torture of awful timing.
And I couldn’t give a literary fuck
If I’m not getting right my rhyming.