Here I wait for the plague to abate,
goin’ stir crazy at home.
Now unharmed…hope I don’t buy the farm,
goin’ stir crazy at home.

TV’s on, and I’m watching “King Kong,”
as I sit here in the gloam.
Drinkin’ rye, startin’ to get quite high…
swig “quarantinis” alone.

Ain’t likely to smile, living this “new” lifestyle,
hunkered down here in my nest.
Whistle’s wet, but still I slightly fret—
don’t want tightness in my chest.

Killed the rye, next it’s absinthe I’ll try:
the “green fairy,” as it’s known.
Proof is high; visions flash past my eyes
as I read “Fleurs du Mal” tome.

Baudelaire had a dark view of life, but not stark;
for him, luxury was alright.
As I try, in French, to grok this guy,
I realize my skills are slight.

Try to stand, but my balance ain’t grand;
legs feel like they’re made of foam.
Creep to bed—soon I’m a sleepyhead.
Sleep’s kinda hazy,
dreams are real crazy:
stuck in a maze, me.
When I awake, be
going stir crazy at home.