Sheltered, shuttered, curses muttered.
What I’ve uttered hear no others.
Cramped, I sit here, just complaining;
I can’t even go outside because it’s raining.

TV pundits boring-jivey…
wish I had a morphine IV.
Got leftovers for my dinner.
Despite compulsive eating, I’m getting thinner.

Online counselors bloviating;
they are very irritating.
So many good times I’m missing.
I am bitching all day, but nobody’s listening.

Each Trump press briefing gets scarier;
he pimps for drugs for malaria.
Let’s face it: this guy’s no smarty,
which can be said of most in the Grand Old Party.

Stuck in home that’s sheltered, shuttered.
I just groan post-curses muttered.
I’m creeping all around my house, bare,
but no one’s here; why should I care?

Stuck at home, bereft of most usual joys.
A mess, the house…broom undeployed.
Perhaps another day, I’ll sweep the dirt away.

Here I’m shuttered, jeers I mutter;
X-rated is what I utter.
At least my phone can assist me
in ordering steak—which turns out to be gristly.

I won’t go past the porch railing,
because I’m fearful of jailing.
Each day things aren’t getting better.
Buccal desert…guess I’ll get my whistle wetter.