In the olden days when Odin was here...
Ancestors, I heard had bat for a toast,
But from a roast.
Generational gap in pages flipped
Covered by the new breeds in reads
Have discovered death lurking in the dead.
What do we have here?
A clime. No, a county,
No, 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 dance of death,
Strangled between 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 accusations...
The forbidden must be forfeited.
