To chop, or not to chop: that is the question Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The lack of your savory presence at my table Or to take arms against a sea of hunger And by opposing end a life Whilst I stand here like pagan god Naked blade raised to unknowing neck To rob, to steal thy very breath In destructive movement of silver to flesh To what end? Ay, there's the rub; Thou art a beast lived by my hand Lived for my purpose and somewhat my demand But what of you oh timid foul? Would I were a god could I say you be gone To count the clock that tells your time To ring the hour that will be mortal? Thou dids't nothing in life To be sinned in death But what of I? Ay me, I am not a god but a mere mortal Whose own hours are counted yet by a higher hand And could I live to know I have done What not is my task, then to have sinned in life To have ta'en a life not mine to take? Methinks not, mere mortal am I For I would bear the tortures of famine Rather than the tortures of the higher hand So run, fair fowl, ne'er to show thy face again For whilst I waste you shall grow fat Upon the grains of the earth Sirrah! I shall waste, so be gone cursèd bird! I shall not have thee upon my conscience But only the agony of an empty table...
Reason for writing:
Shakespeare was great...his language was great. But so is modern satire. Why not combine the two?
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View more poems by Amy Julia Vallis, Aries.