The Corona man.

 
He is around,
as spring turned to winter,
comes as a thief in the day,
stars going out in the night.
 
We will all dance together again,
their is no why, only when,
pensioners in the supermarket looked determined
and shove;
the postman wears a glove.
 
What goes round, comes round,
let's hope it's healing in the light,
we talk to old friends on Skype,
to pass this indoor of days.
 
Squares are empty,
pubs are shut,
everyone's gettin' a giro,
their is no more but.
 
A ring a ring of roses,
a pocket full of posies,
atishoo atishoo,
we all wear a crown.
 
Their will be lottsa,
new books and babies.

 
~