I don't know about you,
But I'm off to Antarctica.
I'm not a fool,
For I'm taking 3 extra pairs of socks,
A woolly pair of gloves,
A scarf of course,
And a hot water bottle.
And to stay even warmer,
During those long, cold, unforgiving, relentless katabatic windy nights,
I shall burn bad poems,
All of which are mine.
That should last me till Rapture!
And if that pesky little virus,
Invades Antarctica,
And has the bloody cheek,
To show it's face to me,
From behind a snowdrift,
It's in for a nasty surprise,
For I'm taking some insurance against it.
A crossbow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Robert Murray Smith is the coronavirus in Poem Hunter. You are a genuine poet, please don't get infected.
Viruses hide behind many masks. A mask behind a mask. And murderers come with smiles. Which are you?