The Numbland
The end is near
Virus is here
One hundred and eighty thousand
Dead, poor dear
Pack your bags
Your coats and shoes
We're going to the land
Of endless blues
There is peace from being numb
After you've lived there awhile
The cold bad news leaves your fingers numb
But after a while you seem to forget
And everyone there stops giving a sweat
-September 2020
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