Dear Corona, I must say

You are killing me with boredom.

What is the point of being alive

When people cannot go or come?

What a jailer you might have made,

Had you been a fellow;

You have no muscle and yet you turn

The so muscled world yellow.

In setting us so apart

You have proved the point

That life is not property

But a commingling sentiment.

Having brought the lesson home,

Do take the kindly hint,

Be on your way and let us reap

The lesson we have learnt.

How I die for a vigorous chat

With ten or twelve chums.

I promise we will keep you in mind,

As we do alarming drums.