Born of a dank and hidden cave in Pandemonium,
The pathogen found a land that filled it with delight;
A country run by thieves who looted the public trough,
And used their lucre to wage war and live in gluttony;
They set aside a pittance for all that was foundational;
Thereupon there was a lack of doctors, nurses, masks
And ventilators — the wicked bow not unto the angels but
Upon the sorrows and the damned; alas, the bombs fell
Copiously, while testing was done sparingly; a barbarous
Land that held good health care as a privilege, one that
Embraced profiteering off of illness and death; instead
Of building hospitals and schools, they built prisons and
Bases: each base, an arsenal of depravity and monstrous
Violence — each prison a Petri dish for the plague to spread
Its dark shroud; tens of millions lacked sick pay or any
Insurance whatsoever, while a far greater number were
Grievously under-insured; and the pathogen found its home
In this land of unbound tyranny, where the gods of avarice
And kleptocracy reigned; and the star-crossed lovers engorged
Upon their villainy, so that the two demons stood out upon
The blood-drenched precipice — undrowned were the falling
Of the angels — to embrace in the pall of the unraveling night