I won’t arise and go now, and go to Innisfree

I’ll sanitise the doorknob and make a cup of tea.

I won’t go down to the sea again; I won’t go out at all,

I’ll wander lonely as a cloud from the kitchen to the hall.

There’s a green-eyed yellow monster to the North of Kathmandu

But I shan’t be seeing him just yet, and nor, I think will you.

While the dawn comes up like thunder on the road to Mandalay

I’ll make my bit of supper and eat it off a tray.

I shall not speed my bonnie boat across the sea to Skye,

Or take the rolling English road from Birmingham to Rye.

About the woodland, just right now, I am not free to go

To see the Keep Out posters or the cherry hung with snow.

And no, I won’t be travelling much, within the realms of gold,

Or get me to Milford Haven. All that’s been put on hold.

Give me your hands, I shan’t request, albeit we are friends

Nor come within a mile of you, until this virus ends.

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