A little rat wandered in
The priest said “pustules born from sin.”
No one knew it would be the end
Until doctors from England they would send
A pustule here, an open sore there
Some hidden germs within the air
Mothers cried as children died
There was no safe haven
Then the men in masks came, the ones dressed like raven.
Bodies burned as our town depleted
The black plague cannot be defeated.
Lorne Bronstein