Rosco Vidal, a seasoned traveller peddling illness, infirmity and death, expects that his journey will soon come to an end as certain agencies plot his demise. However, he delights in finding that his ongoing passage to further shores is facilitated by weak, corrupt, grasping and ignorant governments, and sings…

“Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a thing,
When I arrived unheralded, the death and chaos I could bring,
encouraged by your unpreparedness, and governments that can’t have cared less,
you give me opportunity, to travel with impunity,
embrace close-knit community, pin hopes on herd immunity.
So I stop your meetings, halt your praise, disrupt your lives in many ways,
No weddings, parties, concerts, plays; say goodbye to holidays.
Your leaders abuse autonomy, you’re sacrificed for the economy,
Trump endorses wild prescriptions, Boris’ chums ignore restrictions,
Scomo sidelined, feeling minor, tries to start a war with China!
So you hide behind your own front door, because you’re old, or your health is poor,
Vaccines have arrived too late, this Trojan horse is inside the gate”.


Emma Lovely, a young nurse working in the National Health Service, rues her situation whilst sanding in line and waiting for a hand out from a food van. She laments…

“For seven years I’ve worked on wards (now people clap me in the street),
It’s a shame my kids can’t eat applause (I still can’t seem to make ends meet),
But I noticed on the bus today, you upped and moved further away,
Seems not all appreciate……. my sacrifice”.


Mathilda Grey, a retired ex-matron from the aforementioned institution, sits in a reclining chair, taking in the world unfolding through the window of her room in an old folk’s home, and muses…

“In residential care I will see out what remains,
of a life spent nursing citizens with various complaints,
Now surrounded by the vulnerable, the old and the infirm,
I can only hope that no-one on the staff brings in the germ,
Its plain to me the government intends to wait and see,
More money for the hospitals without the likes of me,
A burden now I’m old so I will be …… a sacrifice”.


Boris Buffoon, clown in residence and unkempt protector of the sacred economy, stands on the front door step of Number 10, claps a nurse or two, and then tries to reassure a frightened (and soon to be dying) population that, despite what’s happening elsewhere in the world, a stiff upper lip, a cup of tea and a quick return to normal workalike is the British way. He blusters…

“The scientists have got it wrong (I’ve had it and it’s not that bad),
You won’t be ill for very long (Stay at home? You must be mad!),
A social distance is all we ask, go to work, just wear a mask,
Don’t dramatise, or roll your eyes and above all……sanitise!”


Mathilda, acutely aware of the muffled coughing that accompanies the comings and goings in the corridor outside her room, reflects on her own predicament - isolated from what’s left of her family, but exposed to her part-time ‘carers’. She reveals…

“The coughing has abated from old Peter in Room 9,
But Doris has a fever in the room right next to mine,
The nurse on nights turns out moonlights in a hotel in the square,
and I’ve been told that travellers have been quarantining there,
If I drink disinfectant whilst standing in bright light,
it has been suggested that it might turn out alright,
Another bloody idiot with another bloody lie! I wonder if they’ll test me, when I come to make …… my sacrifice?”


Emma, exhausted, overworked and under-appreciated, sits on the edge of her bed after a very long shift. Her head cradled in her hands, the stink of death surrounding her like a cloud of flies. She sobs…

“The ICU is full again (with different patients every day),
It seems that everywhere’s the same, (cancer care goes by the way)
The vaccine might have just occurred, too late for the weaklings in the herd,
I bet the businessmen preferred….. to make no sacrifice?”