Let’s set our course, good captain,
We’ll cut across the current.
We must leave this bay were trapped in,
And escape this viral torrent.
We’ve scraped the keel unnoticed,
Hold filled with all we need.
We must free from this bronchitis,
Or our souls will scar and bleed.
They’ve seen our funnel smoking,
No allies to our side.
Armada gathers, stuttered, choking,
As they form a weak blockade.
Radio smashed, as are the phones,
Off the grid we’ll head for the edge.
No hate, greed or plastic thrones,
No lies to fill or dredge.
A glance behind and all I see,
Is beleaguered boats and wood.
The dreamers jumped and came with me,
At the bow, hands held we stood.
Copyright Pedro Batpoet 2018