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we will have no mouth to mourn what morning brings the corona-feasting carrion littering our lawns we will have no seed but scion to plant for the season our barns be brimmed with broken memories of loss we will bear no tongue with which to sling supplications skywards for god's favoured hand between reality and fantasy we see zilch swimming the sea the depth of faith flows towards confluence of cognition we will be drained like delta with politricked veracity our maudlin moans bile our belly like brackish water in fish groin no tears to shed no tea to share covid coos like ominous cock in the afternoon of life