Beware of the Blackthorn Winter, my dear
It’s an icy, windy old goat
In the milk-teeth of spring
And will bite you in the throat, my dear
Like a wildly contagious pandemic
Beware of the delivery driver, my dear
He will always be rushed for time
You’ll hear the doorbell ring
And he’ll ask you to sign, my dear
Like a crafty, germ-filled van-demic
Beware of the supermarket, my dear
With pricy goods and empty shelves
And over-friendly jokers
Forgetting to isolate themselves, my dear
Like a rancid, fat-laden spam-demic
Beware, the revived sitcom, my dear
With poorly written scenes of lust
And bay-watching beauties
Waring bikini tops fit to bust, my dear
Like a bawdy Andersonian Pam-demic
Beware of the ardent jogger, my dear
With reflective trainers of gold
He’ll let off a snot-stream
And give you his deadly cold, my dear
That nasty contagious phlegm-demic
Beware of the aspiring poet, my dear
He’ll smash our lexicon to shards
And produce verbal aces
Like a stacked deck of cards, my dear
That para-literary, gregarious pun-demic
And beware of the ides of June, my dear
For it may still be too soon
To party in the street
To dance by the light of the moon, my dear
And indulge in a let-go and have fun-demic
