The Oul’ Hat - A poem

’Twas December nineteen when the wee man did hear,

Poor China was struggling and shrouded in fear,

A virus was rampant, and spreading its wings,

As he heads to the shop for his groceries and things.

The oul’ hat adorned, and overcoat on,

His daily outing, today the sun shone,

The goodies all gathered, in the pub he’d alight,

For a stout, a wee goldie, and to put the world right.

“The young ones are travelling, it’s hard to keep track,

And spread the world over, it’s sure to come back”,

So it’s time to get ready for when it appears,

If the frontline’s not kitted, it’ll all end in tears.

Talk of the trenches, and arming the troops,

The poor NHS will be jumping through hoops,

“I heard of the exercise four years ago,

Cygnus they called it, our numbers are low”.

The report it was buried, no action was taken,

Acceptable death tolls, the nation forsaken,

No doubt when it’s over and the backslapping starts,

They’ll have some explanation for the many broken hearts.

His head full of questions, he’d make his way home,

Whilst sporting the grin of a multi toothed comb,

The old man quite happy at another day out,

His muckers, his goldie and bottle of stout.

The world having shrunk, at his time of life,

His bottle of stout, his garden and wife,

So glad to be mobile, and getting around,

A life full of stories, and wisdom abound.

Alas three months later, the old man’s not seen,

Our journeys are limited, and hands must be clean,

An abandoned set, the streets now appear,

The untouchable youth still showing no fear.

But soon they’ll be cheering, the strife is now over,

Here, here, to the frontline from Belfast to Dover,

A return to our habits and routine, is the call,

But an oul’ hat’s left hanging, alone in the hall.

By SJL