Whoever dwells in the shelter might just survive,
but such life is like shadows of an all-nighter.
I strive not to get bored, through huge accumulations of stress…
not shod, my duds not donned.

Hourly, daily, I shall go nowhere,
because of deadly pestilence.
My cadres cannot flock together;
this unnerving house serves as refuge.
No playfulness to wield; no support, rapport.
Darkness is near—that must mean, comes night…
I cannot distinguish from day.
On the pestilence stalks; a relentless,
horror plague that takes many away.
Some thousands already have died,
yet crowds do not understand:
They must not get near in slews.
Perhaps they do not observe with eyes,
their heads up their fundaments, past sphincters.

If crews importune, you must refuse,
crying, “I will stay in my dwelling!
Do not, and harm might ensue.
Beware: Disaster might be your bent.
If you bank on angels’ protections, you will lose.
To save yourself, inside stay.
No crowds, and no grandstands.
Like everyone, you will have to go it alone.
Do not count upon HIPPA or COBRA.
They cannot handle claims; shan’t rely on surgeons.”

On the grub front, try not to gorge: Food stocks are slim,
and saline Slim-Jims become an alimental bane.
Night is falling, and daylight is getting dim—
I shall pour myself a double
of Genever (Dutch gin); vermouth wisp, thin.
A long draft to satisfy this whim.
Then lo, inebriation.