JW Hanscom  2/20
Pity the poor scaly pangolin.   Its magic carpet grounded at the Wuhan fish market, dashing its zootic hopes of what-might been, playing the violin or dancing among the stars.    Instead, with every sniffle and sneeze, accused, if you please, of harboring the corona disease, and being likened to a carrier of Sars.   Unless they point the finger, according to another theses, at the insect-gobbling bat doomed to hang upside down in a dimly lit cave observing its own feces and craving the taste of a gnat.   Aboard the Diamond Princess in the bay of Yokahoma, there is only fear and dread that a quarantine may not forestall the dead and, though the virus can reach beyond a mask, there is no chicken soup available from Mama.      As the numbers grow and time begins to wear, irony begins to stare that, if you want to leave her, the only escape from the shut-in marine quarantine is to contract the fever. JW Hanscom 2/20

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