The Art of Plague by cOvid

Arnold Böcklin, "Plague," (1898)

cOvid wants attention;

cOvid just wants love.

He went AWOL, attached himself

As a hand into a glove;

Banished by his Masters,

Self-distanced, not alone,

Conceived on the wing – loitering,

At the window’s secure zone.

 

Bat-munching barbarians

Will take official blame;

When Dr Who comes calling,

Suspects all look the same.

Wash the razor with a hose,

Sluice the wastage down the drain;

Fresh mops and a butcher’s pail

Will carry away the stain.

Nothing to do with us;

We smile, and calculate:

The number the next beast into

The crock pot shall decimate.