A simoom from Sahara
Descended on our Eastern land,
From Sheppey up to Scarborough
Down-poured a maddening sand.

It got into their eyeballs
And entered through their ears,
It muted campus halls
And inveigled tutors’ fears.

It festered in the mindset,
More flour bought, less eggs appear;
Cancelled cruises and the vet,
No Trinidad this year.

Some went mad, the last I heard,
Beat their drums, took photographs;
Preferred a bulldog-bitten word,
They circled 5G telegraphs.

With slurring speech said phones had started
The spreading of infection,
So they burnt the network poles glad-hearted;
There’s no more dialect inflection.

They danced around those maypoles,
With revelry, with glee well-fed,
But could not return maternal calls;
Their telephones were dead.

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