“With these my hands, by time’s grey hand defiled,
I’ll speak my praise – thy verse leaves me beguiled!”
I beg, make haste; the crime must be avenged!
The ghost has seen its duty to accuse.
O, fie due process!, let it be impinged!
The execution will not be recused.
What waiting grave proclaims a warming trend,
unless of course, the destination’s hell?
Lethal poison befits the brutal end,
A mix and switch, by his own hand he fell.
The play’s the thing, you lawless resolute,
Must it be midnight ere your lines do speak?
It is in your power to heal the mute,
The protagonist was not mad, nor weak.
Now, even with the mousetrap set and sprung,
The jury does defer ’til song is sung.