by Andres Diaz ©2021
Now is the winter of your discontent
With no glorius summer behind it
Was that a dagger before your hand?
What happened when you made to grasp it?
You dastardly righteous people and your concocted mourning
You meant to bury Caesar not to praise him
You being wrought perplex’d in the extreme
You’ve robbed yourself and spent a bootless grief
You ask me, “Villain, what hast thou done?”
And my last words to you are,
“That which thou canst not undo”.