Out damn spot! he cried in rage
And kicked the dogcan down the road
He reckoned not the Stratford sage
Had long ago those words bestrode
How had he failed, this wondrous tongue?
Had he not the beaming smile?
Had he not the welkin rung
With words that sang to God the while
He humbly asked for guidance from
Assembled potentates from lands
That altogether made the sum
Of feudal tribes and wand’ring bands?
True I talk of idle dreams
Which are the children of an idle brain
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy
And yet I hear the muted screams
Of those who are beset by pain
Who look to me to bring some sanity
To this cruel world of sticks and stones
And hidden meanings in their eyes
It may be that no man atones
For pain with wringing hands and sighs
We shall not stay our hand or will
We shall prevail and save the world
From all who wish us well or ill
We’ll leave no oyster yet unpearled
Adrift my policy doth swell
That I could change it with a wand
They say I love myself too well
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond