In one way I am thankful
the turd-face who belongs
locked in a room infested
with COVID-19 invisible
torturing
murderers chose my credit card
to feed its fucking greed,
because
I was bereft of ideas for
today’s
Corona poem until I discovered
the hemorrhoid-face had ripped
my card off
for five hundred dollars,
discovering
this after a text message from
my bank
urged me to check my account,
which I did, and discovered
the
shit-breathed remora had tried
three times to hit my card
today
with the first two declined,
while enjoying the charmed
third,
after which I managed to speak
with a live human voice in my
bank’s
fraud department, and learned
that
there was no way to stop the
debit
but that the bank would make
good the
theft and that I should
destroy my recently
updated card and expect a new
one
to arrive in about a week,
plus some forms
to fill out for their records,
which the
fraud specialist said would
not necessarily
mean the thief would be
identified
and prosecuted, whereupon I
expressed
befuddled dismay while
remaining
respectful of the fraud
specialist’s
undoubtedly Herculean task in
assisting bank customers
victimized
during these months of
presumably
ubiquitous predation by
dead-rat-rotten
offal-souled privy slurping
pieces
of...oh, use your imagination,
at least
my adventure in digitalic
mugging gave me
these lilting insouciant
stanzas to further
brighten your already sunny
pandemic day.
m.d.
paust
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