Six-point-six million more out of a job.
As the French might utter, “Quel misérable.”
The effort by New York I’m quick to belittle,
But my approach best summed up as: noncommittal.
My job as cheerleader: spread bonhomie;
Act as a virus savant wanna-be.
Making predictions without facts as basis;
Trying to stick smiles on sick people’s faces.
Then, as the sun set on Monday’s arrival,
I proclaimed less chance than thought for survival.
Challenging times, and the numbers are so bad;
Dashing hopes too many not long ago had.
If I’d done nothing (a baseless assertion),
We’d be overwhelmed by the need for good nursin’.
Comparing death counts to the absence of effort
Makes even my self-tanned and bright orange head hurt.
I’ve made many missteps, but will not admit them.
I misled so much, some still don’t know what hit them.
Despite Monday’s briefing, I’m once again stating:
Just one month before COVID-19’s abating.
I can’t be believed, and (this isn’t a small thing)
When this virus hit, I was mostly off golfing.
I’ll place blame on anything pulled off the shelf,
But these three deserve it: I, me, and myself.
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