Covog
The fog from Covid dulls my brain
My grey cells turn to mulch
I don’t make sense half the time
Not even to myself.
My better half is much the same
We often lose the plot
Our fondest hope is half plus half
Makes one and sense wins out.
It’s mostly so but sometimes
Half plus half makes nothing
Then back to the drawing board
To check the careful adding.
We’ve all gone just a little mad
These eighteen months of hell
Have put us on the edge
We’re holding on until
The remedy will surely come
When normal programs play
When embraces and the feel of skin
Will save us from this plague.
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