POEM: Richard III may have said it better

I say bring on the winter of our discontent

Where, not content to be,

We’ll yet wallow in frantic outrage

At benighted refuseniks who call us lemmings

For, they say, docilely leaping off vaccine cliffs

Onto the rocks below.

But we, who are not shaped for heroic stunts

Intend but to cover our asses

And plow on as best we can,

Ruing the feeble hand we are dealt

To weather this intractable protraction

Of the lurking doom.

And therefore, since we cannot prove ourselves victor

Over that galling protein of spike,

Let us bring out the inner cynic and

Perversely point out the boiling rot

In the content of our global character;

Then, come what may, shrug.

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