Macbeth’s Demented Lament

                                                                                                 In Memory Of Mr. Bill Shakespeare

“Out, out, brief candle.”  Macbeth, Macbeth

 

Seyton (pronounced “Satan”)

The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macbeth

At last, she’s gone to bed.

She got me in this fix

By teaching me her tricks.

I’m in a mortal pickle,

A plight that doesn’t tickle.

I’m sorry that she’s gone;

Think me a king?  A pawn!

Perchance she was a witch–

Her spell:  ambition’s twitch.

A cauldron-stirring bitch

(At least she made us rich).

My wife once lost a child;

No wonder she went wild,

As mad as Hamlet, Dane,

Source of Ophelia’s pain.

She drowned in river’s rain,

Never to rise again.

 

I’m off to Dunsinane!

(Say I’m an inane dunce?

I guess I’ll let you–once.)

And when I meet Macduff,

I’ll pump my chest and puff.

That devil ain’t so tough;

I will not call his bluff.

The taste of blood I like.

Put my head on a pike;

Present it to the fool

As an instructive tool.

 

Remember me–Macbeth!

The bearer of new death,

Who laughs with loud bad breath

As I rant on the heath

With nothing to bequeath

With fellow madman Lear,

Who has no need for beer

Or sovereign souvenirs.

His view is crystal clear,

Pain-cleaned to conquer fear,

Cordelia’s corpse to bear

Before he “never” swears

And plunges to the earth,

The mother of his birth,

And maker of his dearth,

Reminder of our worth.

 

 

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