Without an agreement in hand
The reps leave with their demands
Back to their hometowns and states
Stuck in relief stalemate.
For now we peddle and drown
In a sea of virus and sounds
Of coughing without masks despite
The weeks between now and respite.
The flute flutters a tune as
The poor ol’ Postman
Marches up the driveway
Lugging the loot
For both Willie and Donnie
Only to shoot
Him down.
Donnie deals in illusions
And rejected the package
That would be sure to
Relieve the Postman
Of his aching cough.
But, alas, in front of
Charley and Bernard’s sweat
Donnie yells to the Postman:
“Drop dead!”
The House passed the bill
After efforts to block it.
Trump signed it at once.
This Is Just to Say 