Gorboduc

Toil to the end
when the fires
pretend to be
salve to this vile, hot heat.
Spoils for a friend
in the front row
defend the performance
to the god-damned hilt.
Stick to the floor
while the pelicans
roar at the ceiling
that gapes in a yawn.
Explode with pretence
of a bathing young
wench and then
drown in the milk, overladen.
Rotting in quiet
while those once charmed
doth riot and the noise
is all at once
too fucking much.