by Chris O’Carroll

Pandemic response is a pooch I am totally screwing.
When I’m not tweeting insults, I have no idea what I’m doing.
Tens of thousands have died. It’s unfair to me, all of this booing.

Let this gospel be preached everywhere that my tweetstorm winds blow—
I should not get the blame for how badly I’m running the show,
It’s the fault of that Kenyan whose term ended three years ago.

by Nina Parmenter

Scientists are investigating the ancient lava tubes of Mars as a “safe” place for human habitation.
Theoretically these vast underground caverns would provide sufficient protection from radiation
for a settlement to be viable.

Living on Mars in a lava tube?
What fun, my dears, what fun!
We’ll surf on the flows, and then maybe—who knows—
we will gather when day is done
to remember the sea and the sun.

Living on Mars in a lava tube—
no actual lava, you say?
Just vacuum and dust in the cold of the crust
and the dark? Still, a great place to stay
as we cower from cancer all day.

Living on Mars in a lava tube—
it’s so smashing to know that we could!
If we poison our sky—never mind! We’ll just fly
to this welcoming new neighborhood.
Hooray! It’s a plan then. Sounds good.

by Eddie Aderne

“French serial-killer expert admits serial lies, including murder of imaginary wife …
[Stéphane] Bourgoin told Le Figaro that he felt he needed psychological counselling, and that ‘all
these lies are absolutely ridiculous, because if we objectively take stock of my work, I think it was
enough in itself’. He said he had exaggerated and lied about his life because he had always
felt he was not really loved.”
—The Guardian

Of all my lies about my life,
The worst’s the murder of my wife:
Although herself imaginary,
She must have found this rather scary.
‘Twas bad in fact for both of us,
And also quite ridiculous:
Objectively reviewed, my work
Had left no need to play the jerk.
It’s psychological, I think,
And calls for counsel from a shrink;
Had I felt loved, I’d not have done
Fake injuries to anyone.

by Nora Jay

“Two-thirds of US believers see Covid-19 as message from God, poll finds
Poll found 31% feel strongly that God is telling humanity to change, with the same number feeling that somewhat …
Fifty-five per cent of American believers say they feel at least somewhat that God will protect them from being infected.”
—The Guardian

According to a recent poll
To quantify the nation’s soul,
It’s thought by 62%
That COVID’s a divine event.
God wants humanity to change
Say all of these, but there’s a range:
Half feel it “strongly,” filled with zeal,
While “somewhat”’s how the others feel.
Percentage-wise, some 55
Feel God will help them stay alive
Somewhat at least; the other lot
Feel less than somewhat, i.e. not.

by Susan Jarvis Bryant

“Boris Johnson to launch war on fat after coronavirus scare. It’s alright for you thinnies,
PM tells staff as he accepts obesity increases risk from Covid-19.”
—The Times, UK

With lockdown here, I stave off fear; I will not cease to be!
I scour and scrub and bleach and buff my home incessantly.

For every task I don a mask and rubber gloves as well.
Each room’s pristine; I’m so darn clean, all germs will burn in hell.

I soap my mitts, blitz grime to bits in COVID-zapping fashion,
and when I’m done there’s time for fun—I turn to my new passion.

This quarantine has gleaned a chef drawn from the depths of me,
who chops and stirs and bastes then tastes each scrumptious recipe.

For sixty days I’ve supped and grazed on gastronomic dreams.
A piggish beast, I’ve gorged each feast until I’ve strained my seams.

And now new finds have blown the minds of all who’ve been indulging;
This plague connives to blight the lives of those whose bods are bulging.

I’ve read the dreaded warning tale of scoffing until podgy—
I should have munched on kale for lunch and dodged the sweet and stodgy.

But here we are, too late by far, I’m fat and in grave peril—
I’ve gobbled ‘til I wobble, BUT, at least my fork was sterile!

by Barbara Crooker

We’ve stayed inside for sixty days
We’ve changed our habits many ways
We can’t give Mother’s Day bouquets
And now come murder hornets

We’ve washed our hands till they are sore
We’ve scrubbed the counters, mopped the floor
We’ve wiped the knob on every door
And now it’s murder hornets

We hide our mouths behind a mask
We double-think each mundane task
What else can we do now, you ask?
Look out for murder hornets

We live this life in quarantine
Away from friends who can’t be seen
We spend our days glued to a screen
And fear the murder hornets

One day restrictions will be over
But will we wander in the clover
And play a game of catch with Rover?
Hell no. Thanks, murder hornets!

by Nora Jay

“Boy, 5, told officers he was driving to California to buy Lamborghini sports car—with $3 in his pocket”
—The Guardian

When I was young, I must admit, I could be kind of bratty:
I kept expecting Santa Claus to buy me a Bugatti;
But now I’m five, I don’t believe in fairies or a genie,
And so I know it’s up to me to find my Lamborghini.

They make them near Los Angeles, so off I headed early.
I took my parents’ SUV (which is a bit toe-curly):
The steering wheel is kind of tall (it isn’t that I’m teeny),
But achy arms don’t matter when you need a Lamborghini.

I hit the gas, not caring if my legs were getting sorer,
Till suddenly I saw a flashing, boring Ford Explorer.
There was a cop inside of it, and, boy, he was a meanie;
And thanks to him I’ve still not got my three-buck Lamborghini.

by Jerome Betts

8th May in ’45? So long ago,
That one spring day distinguished by a V?
8th May in 2020? Different foe
And one more month disfigured by a C.

by Anna M. Evans

For Juno

We had to all go virtual, just like that!
And most of it is going pretty well,
except Zoom meetings hijacked by my cat.

The teaching’s looking good, from where I’m sat.
It’s lucky that I had my Blackboard shell
when we had to all go virtual, just like that.

The student who was bratty’s still a brat.
Not much is new. As far as I can tell
they all like “online classroom” with my cat.

I can forgive myself for getting fat—
I’ve drunk an awful lot of Zinfandel
since we had to all go virtual just like that.

The problem is, when I sit down to chat
online with more important clientele,
Zoom meetings will get hijacked by my cat.

And if I peel her off me, yelling, Scat,
she just comes back again and raises hell.
I’ve mastered going virtual, just like that,
except Zoom meetings hijacked by my cat.

by Julia Griffin

Tom Hanks asked me into his kitchen,
Now Ellen and Portia have too;
Madonna’s rose bathtub’s bewitchin’,
I’m thrilled with Reese Witherspoon’s view.

The stars of the Met have been gracious:
I like hanging out with Renée;
The Kimmel kid’s playroom looks spacious.
(I’m hoping they’ll ask me to stay.)

The Dixie Chicks host me in Dallas;
At Oprah’s I’ve got a routine;
But Christmas I’ll keep for the Palace—
My post-dinner drink with the Queen.

by Ruth S. Baker

“The Kentucky Derby isn’t happening on Saturday, but a turtle race is”
—CNN

“NBC will be hosting a virtual Kentucky Derby featuring Triple Crown winners”
—CNN

The punters at their screens are feelin’ lucky.
Some things don’t stop; a Derby will be run;
In fact, we’ve got two options from Kentucky,
And CGI can give us both in one!

The rookies doubtless favour Secretariat;
But anyone who wants to keep his shirt’ll
Consider this a contest to be wary at:
A virtual horse against an actual turtle.

by Claudia Gary

To the GOP lawmaker who opposed coronavirus face masks
because they cover “the image of God”

What holy Protector
anointed with nectar
your head’s frontal sector?

If you’re his reflector,
I don’t mean to hector,
but is God a vector?

by Alex Steelsmith

If a body meets a body
Comin’ through the rye,
If a body greets a body,
Will a body die?

Chorus:
Every lassie has a laddie;
None, they say, have I.
All the lads avoid my body
Comin’ through the rye.

If a body sees a body
Comin’ down the street,
Should a body let a body
Come within six feet?

If a body meets a body
Comin’ from the well,
Can a body touch a body,
Even with Purell?

If a body meets a body
Comin’ from the town,
Will a body’s antibodies
Let a body down?

by Dan Campion

“I’m not saying anything is perfect . . .”
—The President of the United States

By braying, “open soon,” alas,
He’s saying who’s a perfect ass.

by Orel Protopopescu
(With apologies to Paul Simon)

The problem’s all inside blue states, the prez declares,
so why’s it my fault they were all caught unawares?
Why should I stop supplying them with fresh nightmares
when there are fifty ways to screw them over?
He says, it’s really not my habit to intrude
except to help my friends, at least the ones who lift my mood.
Why send our PPE to states where I get booed
when there are fifty ways to screw them over?
Fifty ways to screw them over…

Stop the jokes about Kiev, Kev.
Blame and deceive, Steve.
Pin them down, limb by limb, Jim.
They lose what we gain.
Keep them in park, Mark.
Call them out for their dark snark.
Eyes on our campaign, Blaine.
Their loss is our gain.

Prez says, why should I help the governors succeed
in states I hate? It feels so great to keep the stuff I know they need.
Your loyalty to me is guaranteed now we’ve agreed
about those fifty ways…
He says, what better use for power anyway?
We may be gone tomorrow. Better to cash in today!
And with a sniffing snort he added, As I say,
There must be fifty ways to screw them over…

(Repeat Chorus)