And so they queued before the supermarkets opened ,
desperate for toilet roll,
and soon the shelves were stripped ,
of meats and fish ,
and the old bog roll .

And the queues were long and desperate ,
despite the biting cold ,
and no one came to see the jester and the joker ,
the playwrite  the poet ,
of Old .

For once they came in the hundreds ,
to pay homage to their gods on stage
of grass or board or water

From miles like flies to stadiums built for their gods and Kings .

And so their lights went dim ,
and then went out ,
and the grass then grew like **** .
and they forgot about their gods of athleticism and speed .

They lounged about and eat starchy fats with ready meals ,
and watched tv .
And so even the Churches lay empty ,
but the Christians never slept ,
they never eat cakes and biscuits and left them on the shelf.
And so they got together ,
and so the  virtual church was born ,
with online services ,
they herolded a brand new morn .

So sweet the child that does not scream ,
but rests content as he knows his Father knows best .
That does not run at tempting sounds ,
that pull his heartstrings to melodies that aren’t so sweet ,
and drum marches to a different beat ,
that echoe all around .

That listens to a quiet voice ,
not the din the worlds renoun.

That eats off a dinner plate that’s full of love and not of hate ,
and books that makes one contemplate the years that are yet to come.

And so the rattle falls .

But  we are not content ,
and seek a world that will bend to every thought we dare not keep ,
and we wish we had never left .

But those thoughts are bitter sweet ,
and they fester when ill at ease .
And for all the time spent on the floor ,
we gather to our saviour Lord ,
to draw crawling to his arms once more .

When all we can see are legs and chairs ,
bruised egos and silent prayers ,
and our loving saviour .

Now there was a time when mans germs gathered as one ,
for in fields and stadiums we sat and clapped ,
under ground trains travelled ,
gathered in bars and by the sand .
Travelled far and wide ,
for all we now do is sanitize ,
and we dare not leave our homes .

And so the streets are bare ,
for only cops live there ,
and men in white clothing ,
with hose pipes at night ,
and mega phones ,
so we don’t leave home .

So let us wash our hands whist reciting happy birthday.
For we sneeze then cough and cough and cough ,
and pray that God won’t take us .
And on it goes our runny nose ,
and self isolation

Clean you’re hands ,
don’t touch you’re face ,
Scrub and clean the serface space ,
self isolate .

For the streets are empty ,
only men in white with hose pipes clean and wash the streets ,
and death awaits us still .

So clean you’re hands don’t leave the house ,
get out you’re scrubbing brush ,
for death is but a runny nose ,
a cough a sneeze or so we are told .

And the airports and railways have all but closed ,
and don’t you touch the railings .
But the Cheltenham races still go on,
for everyone loves the races .

Sanitizer wash and scrub ,
there is no toilet paper ,
don’t shake my hand ile wave good buy ,
I guess ile see you later .

A  widow sits on her stoney throne ,
a solitary figure she calls her home .

For  the court she keeps are of one ,
and her sorrow weeps in the cold stone walls that she has become .

For cold is the night as the snow slowly falls ,
a sniffle to  wipe as she powders her nose .

Pale her complexion as white as a stone ,
for her lips are as red as the rose that she holds.

For no one stands near for she sits there alone ,
and cold is the palace she now calls home .

So after days with one flower she sat ,
I opened her carriage ,
there alone with her cat .


A crack of the whip ,
and off we sped ,
for her to sleep under trees ,
for what she called a bed .

To watch one flower grow under the sweet springs rain ,

to remind her of the joys he brought,
her lover ,
and beloved king ,
under the pouring rain .