2020 has already been a little rough, glares over a little cough;
the all powerful cough! that it has emptied the government's trough;
as if that wasn't enough, now its also a matter of poor scoffs.
A lockdown or a vacation?
A curfew or just a cessation?
The mist long defeated by the mighty sun, the king has long reclaimed its domain;
but couldn't in fact win over a few, sometimes it feels free to be chained.
Those drowsy eyes might be the same to many, but not to all;
for a few in their aprons, about these cursed lands they garden sprawl.
Clad in gloves and masks, the prescriptions and the infamous scrawl;
if these are monsters infesing the night streets, we are the guardians of the night fall.
Life goes on, the alarm still rings at the same hour;
no laid back deep breathes, no fancy dishes in cornflour.
As owl- eyed as always, over our patients we scour;
for if this is a warzone, we are in charge of the watch tower.
In all green are we, but we are no Hulk invinsible;
if these are times like the plague, we are no Moses biblical;
for we are all trapped in this Pandora's Box, nothing is predictable;
but as long as the apron and the gloves are on, being hopeful is formidable.