If nothing else, I marvel at this:

this ruined spire, 
which could once
rival those in 
leafy Oxford;

this decrepit office, 
once boasting toasting, 
tweeting triumphs,
when toasting and 

tweeting were the toasts 
of the town and the tweets 
of the twitter, well before 
the great AI propaganda 

machine in the cloud bent 
it's churning compute on
churning the tweet tags
from black to white

to distract from the long
lines of lonely coffins
bare of pall bearers
and mask their grieving, 

knelt in single plague-locked 
places, far departed 
from the subject of 
their grief; this scheming 

crow upon his shoulder 
crowing in his ear, clearly 
unconcerned at masquerading 
in the plague  doctor's mask 

after picking at the milky eyes of 
the victims and rousing the mob to 
splash blood red crosses on the doors 
of those who won't get with the program.

If nothing else, at this I abide.

Boris Johnson, politician and sometime journalist, appears to abandon all sense and discard any integrity he ever had in order to sell out his country live on national television defending the indefensible, today in 2020 amid the calamity of 35000 deaths in the UK due to COVID-19.