Poetry In Motion: #4- Black 1666

The dead hath raised fury prior once said
In time they would but feast upon thy bed.
A plight so bleak, all mortals surely damned
By swarms of rodents sent by Hades hand
Up from the Underworld into the realm
Where Man hath dwelt, before t’were overwhelmed.

Soon, Pestilence reareth its ugly head;
Ten thousand souls perish unto the dead.
Resilience misused, I understand,
Proves taxing amidst bedlam Devil-planned.
No lights by yonder sea can save them now
From monumental death in which they drown.

At first, a lump appeareth on the neck
So grand none can desist becoming wrecked
And if said boil should begin to weep,
Alas, fellow! Awaits, eternal sleep.
Expect fever and pain ne I can tell
Ye. Black thou art unable to dispel.

The street doth smell of grotesque tobaccos;
And frankincense, and pepper, hops; thou know’st
The putrid air infecteth all that breathe,
In spite of stronger odours we receive
Our lungs still are bequeathed unwontedly
With poison seen in 1353.

That rhyme that children sing denotes the stage
Of history where plagues were all that raged.
A fifth of London faced a harsh demise;
Now they’re statistics, we can summarise
The tragic loss of life. Today, we’ll fix
The plague swept across 1666.