Mad King
What then if Lear,
No longer fettered
By desire for daughter-love,
Grew greedy only
For the worship of all?
Cordelia fled
To a France soon ravished
(As indeed is she,
But she is alive).
Kent, with the means to buy
A place to weather
With a hey-ho
The wind and the rain;
His son, without his blessing,
Reduced indeed to Bedlam.
Goneril and Regan,
Their sister-swipes unchanged
Until the inevitable
Dagger and chalice.
But these cats spat
Not for kingdoms
But for the king's ear
As his fist closes tighter
Over mercy he might have bestowed.
And when such as these,
With wealth and landed title
Face such ruin,
How then do fare
The miller and the mariner,
Their wives, and, most especially
Their daughters?
When the mighty will not pay
The ante for their ugly games
It is left to the lowly
To shoulder the cost.
When the curtain falls
On bodies pooled in blood and velvet
The weary sexton sighs,
And stretches,
And reaches for a well-worn spade.