‘Twas the year of the virus, oh twenty and twenty,
A tale of a man, not too lofty nor plenty.
In a world full of masks and a touch of despair,
Dr. Fauci tiptoed in with a graying hair.
No Santa Claus magic, nor a diabolical scam,
Just a man with some charts and a helpful game plan.
He spoke of the virus with a hint of a smile,
An affable charm that stretched for a mile.
In press conferences, he’d calmly explain,
Not a saintly figure, but not quite mundane.
His expertise shone, but his humor was sly,
A lovable twinkle in a knowledgeable eye.
As the pandemic waned, like the end of a song,
Dr. Fauci prepared to bid all so long.
The masks disappeared, and so did Fauci,
and I write silly poems at home on my couch-y.
A tale of a man, not too lofty nor plenty.
In a world full of masks and a touch of despair,
Dr. Fauci tiptoed in with a graying hair.
No Santa Claus magic, nor a diabolical scam,
Just a man with some charts and a helpful game plan.
He spoke of the virus with a hint of a smile,
An affable charm that stretched for a mile.
In press conferences, he’d calmly explain,
Not a saintly figure, but not quite mundane.
His expertise shone, but his humor was sly,
A lovable twinkle in a knowledgeable eye.
As the pandemic waned, like the end of a song,
Dr. Fauci prepared to bid all so long.
The masks disappeared, and so did Fauci,
and I write silly poems at home on my couch-y.
