PANDEMIC DIARY

“THE BEE’S KNEES”

July 25, 2020

Alas! Were I but bobbing at sea
”To land” ne’er would I plea
For open blue many men do flee
Escaping city streets and scree.

T’is true, desire will not free
Me for seasonal mash of peas
Or, divinely sumptuous brie.
As to ocean, such trifles are wee.

Though my head may turn to lea
Beholding forest of birch and fir tree
Then think I of cabin and key
And shirk work and responsibility.

Only God knows. Tomorrow we foresee
Not, nor wish I to decry or decree.
Power, wealth, position I certainly see
Can corrupt king or queen, he or she.

Such dreams provide joy and harmony
Of spirit, whilst Monday I to surgery
Go. Today, green tea I drink, naught whiskey,
For this the period ’pre’ new knee.

Your reflections and corps d’esprit
I so admire. You are “the bee’s knees”
Thank you, your presence; your comments are stellar.
Post-op, I promise a glossy picture of my patella.