The Creeping Crud

 

The Creeping Crud

 

The “Creeping Crud” spread o’er the land,

A virus vile smaller than sand,

It’s nada, nada, nada neat,

So wash your hands, and knees and feet.

 

But, one day soon (we hope it’s soon),

The “Creeping Crud” who’s had its boon,

Twill meet its match from antidotes,

With twisty ties around their throats.

 

And, they’ll be gone, gone with the wind,

Their devastation will rescind,

The children will come out to play,

And, we’ll praise God for this bright day!

 

Peter Lowell Paulson

November 16, 2020

I’ve been writing letters to our “remote” grandkids. I wrote this poem to include in this month’s letter.