They cancelled Glasto, Wimbledon, the fete,
So now they’ve cancelled Death -
Though with the promise it’ll be back here next year.
It seems it isn’t safe.
That social distancing the teeming souls
Along the Styx’s sepulchral banks won’t wash.
And so a cos-play minister,
Another mediocre crank who’s just short-strawed the presser,
Lies and squeals “Another first for Britain!”
Ranks of caught reporters’ heads,
Like bits and bobs some nutcase keeps in jars to sate his scientific interest,
Nod from the surrounding screens.
So they furloughed the plumed horses,
The gravediggers and morticians,
While the crematoria cooled.
And the sick get sicker
With no chances of a last blessed release,
Just stacked in artics spiralling round each town.
And irrespective of their recent callous flush,
The care homes become black holes of Calcutta,
A leafy streeted scandal now a tinderbox that never quite explodes.
And if some whining trolls in The Spectator
Demand their Right to Die as English Freedom’s Bounty,
We all just check our phones
Then zoom Eternity
Connecting to the Great Beyond remotely
With a screenful of screaming brown snowstorming static
And furtively check emails,
And maybe nod if some white noise grabs at something edging sense,
Paying no attention to the far off comedy screams.