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.
