‘Little Nell’ continues her mastery of absurdist verse.
MAN Tell us a tragical tale of a man who was handsome and quite strong.
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
MICROBE No—sing a victory ode for a battle I fought hard and fought long!
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
One of my enemies I in ferocious resistance have bested.
Lesser by one is the fell, foul homo sapiens throng.
Antibiotics were useless as from him his life-breath I wrested.
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
MAN O for the prime of my youth, for the sunshiney days of my haleness!
O for my comrades and friends—microbes have conquered us all!
Happy were we in our prime, till the microbes arose to derail us!
Mourn, fellow men, tender hearts; mourn our calamitous fall!
Friends, friends, to whom shall I turn? They approach, my microbial death-throes.
Bitter the heart in my chest, fierce are the bugs in my brain.
Who, who can succour me now? Who can save me at last as my breath goes?
Is there a hand that can help? Can my lost life be regained?
Is there no stern soul who stands and who skewers the bugs with a fierce prong?
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
MICROBE No, there is none, there is none; though I say it, a microbe, I speak true.
No, no, you cannot survive; know, man, the truth, as you die.
None of you, none, shall survive! It is time for the microbes to beat you!
Only the past now is man’s—th’future’s for those such as I.
Yes, you sad sick sack—the future, the future’s microbial forever!
Earth is not Earth anymore; Earth is a heaven for germs!
Paradise it shall be called (in bacterial tongues) and you’ll never,
Never, o humans, revive; you’ll all be food for the worms.
Spores shall be free and shall rule; if you otherwise think, you are dead wrong.
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
MAN (Climbing out of hospital bed and falling to his knees)
Hail, o last hope of the world, o dear Queen of the universe, come now
Comfort your suffering child; I hope no more to be saved.
Yet, holy Queen, if you can, and you still love the human race, somehow
Help us, redeem us, restore life at the mouth of the grave.
Send us an angel whose hand can the life of humanity prolong
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th’antimicrobial song.
MICROBE (Banging a gong)
Gods of the microbes, I cry to you: bring us the victory, germ gods!
Fail not, attend to my prayer; come at the sound of the gong!
Little I ask, for the odds are indeed in our favour, and firm odds.
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th'antimicrobial song.
The Master appears ex machina.
MAN You are familiar, o shining mysterious form in the ether.
Are you that one whom we knew: Doctor in Chief of the state?
Virgin and Queen, did you send down this doctor and did you bequeath her
To use—a rescuer come late, but, I pray, not too late?
MICROBE Too late, yes, too late! My cry, my victorious cry has gone upwards!
Victory's mine and you'll all fall to microbial power.
Powerless are your vaccines, likewise empty your medical cupboards.
Late, yes, too late have you come, after the salvable hour.
MASTER No, not too late! To your knees, to your prayers, o despicable microbe!
Lucy, despatched by the Queen, sent me to rescue this man.
Not yet for you is prepared, man, a crown and a harp and a white robe.
Microbe, mankind has not yet come to the end of its span.
I have brought with me a drug irresistibly forcible and strong!
Sing us, o sing us, my Muse, th'antimicrobial song.
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