I'll rinse my stowaways on unclean hands
By smothering that silk and slimey goo,
If irritation wins, my faith withstands;
For dreaded virus waits, if failed to do.
I need more potion, how I need more wash!
I find me captured in this rush of most,
With thoughts that jumble in the scrub and slosh:
This hand's sufficient, that corona's toast!
But what the morrow? I need shop, much more;
Three hundred rolls and pasta's stringy sticks
And little tunas plucked in tins' galore,
Buy bulk like crowds whom surely know the picks.

My world's infected by corona's curse
Perhaps more toilet rolls, I'll feel less worse.