In the olden days when Odin was here... Ancestors, I heard, had bats to share And boasted of toasted roast. Generational gapes at pages flamed. Covered by the new breeds - well in reads Have discovered death lurking in the dead. What do we have here? Generation Zed Not a clime, not a county, Not a country, But a people of all colours Upon a boast not to roast the toast, Fishes out death with her teeth. While the creature performs the last dance, Strangled between an unfriendly roof and tongue. The column, the elution, the ****** The filter, the blood, the virus The mouth, the cough, the mask The cold, the fever, the plague Cries and tears: the accusations. The forbidden must be forfeited.