I have started to dream about COVID: or rather,
I dream about Hancock’s half hour.
Where deer-like in the face of the headlights,
Politicians draw straws to cower.
Will today bring forth more pretty numbers
Or some badges they’ve hammered from tin?
Yet another promise on testing, maybe?
Though this spin has all long since worn thin.
Nurses may still need protection,
But Matt swears he’s doing his best;
That panic-bought gowns are all turkeys
Is no proof all his pledges go west.
In the wild, weird world of my dreamscape,
Ministers dine on roast swan,
Toasting the news that care costs
Will have fallen when COVID has gone.
It’s the blow on the chin that Johnson
Had mused that the nation might take:
Any sense that he’s now saddened by it
Is like his fluffed hair – a fake.
Yet still there are so many people,
Whipped on by parts of the press,
Who remain convinced by his bluster,
Unseeing his role in this mess.
At long last the dream starts to fracture;
Reality pours into my mind:
What a time it is that we live in,
When such idiots govern the blind.
8 May 2020
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