Clearing the Miasma
Happy April, fools!
Listen now, I know all of this latter-day hysteria has us a little down in the dumps. We need not obsess over a teeny-tiny organism that we can’t even see. So, today we’re going to discuss something else entirely! Something fun! To the sports desk:
TPC’S EXCLUSIVE 2020 MASTERS TOURNAMENT COVERAGE
_[__________Ripoff Template 3: INSERT BS “STORY” HERE__________]_
Okay… um… the virus, then…
Greetings, dear friends. I trust you’re all at home, bored to tears. How are the kids? What? No “school” again this week? Get ‘em some of that STEM they keep talking about, which I think has something to do with botany. How was church Sunday? Got your $1,200 in government cheese yet? I jest, sorry. Anyway, one of the subjects the kiddos aren’t missing right now is literature. And part of that, fabled throughout our long history, is the art of poetry. Assonance, meter, carburetion, and other elements have always eluded my mastery. So, since you have nothing to do and I am just about out of my damn mind, let’s give it a stab. Yes, gather up your traveling papers, maintain that social distance, and let’s shelter in place while we bail ourselves out with a pandemic poem.
Safer at Gnome
By Perrin Lovett
There is a tree, in west Tennessee, outside of Jackson, they say.
There lives a Gnome, often happy at home, who can keep the virus at bay.
Just play him a tune, at a quarter past noon, on a fretted old dulcimer, true.
And, ask him politely, if he might do rightly, to stem the pandemic of dread.
But, mention not his neighbor; Leprechaun did him no favor when he gave their gold to the Fed.
Magic, you see, from a Gnome in a tree, is all that salvation requires.
Oh, what’s that you say? And, what, by the way, should we sing to our new little friend?
Just strum ye along, to this favorite song, and watch all our troubles upend: