Hark Hamlet of the Fallen
Kirk, a simpleton in words
distressed by death’s deceit;
a donkey’s head, an empty
purse and speechless cures
as blank as scripted verse.
Where are your lips I ask
now wheretofore didst thou
and I depart from friends
in arms declared? An Age
has passed and yet the
haunting sound despairs.
Alas poor Prince, you died
a pauper’s death abed, fleas
abound and throngs of lies
still fly above your hoary head
there is no papal chance of
peaceful beckoning...
© 2 April 2009, I. D. Carswell
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