If I were a writer of melodies,
sad songs would be my forte,
for sadness comes the easiest
to those who sit and wait
and do nothing, simply nothing,
Weep not for those sad songs
for they are merely words,
of frustrated lovers,
stating their lament,
Roaring in, from the East it came.
An ill wind, that will ever remain,
carrying a virus, no plan in mind
except the destruction of today's mankind.
Ill prepare were those left in charge
to face the attack and heavy barrage,
attacking all without reason or rage.
preying on those who were of old age.