Classic Poem

Assassin with the murder-musing smile,
The horrible hunch-back, slim, and garbed in guile
And bulgy-dingy metal, seeks and wins
Unmasked soliloquies, superbly staged.
Slow fades each historied scene; but each begins
In similar pomp. He stabs King Henry caged,
(And wears a scarlet cloak) Next, gets engaged,
Vermilion-clad, black-legged, and sallow with sins.
Another King goes sick. He sneers (in brown).
The King dies, off. Astride his calm white steed
He broods and plots and lours on London town,
And gives two piping nephews all they need.
Then (crafty in a crimson velvet gown)
Limps towards the golden madness of a crown.

No single blood-stained sonnet could have shown
Richard, nor all his registrations told.
Now, shrunk and sable on his tragic throne,
He glowers envenomed (draped in cloth of gold).
. . . Big business with a candle . . . and his Queen
Beautifully poisoned somewhere in the wings
Then doom and gilded armour; and a scene
Of ghosts; dim, husky-voiced Shakespearian things

The casualties were numerous: and at last
He died (in clashing brass-ware), tired but tense;
Lord of his own undoing, crazed, aghast,
And propertied regardless of expense.
And the whole proud production paled and passed,
Self-conscious, like its brilliant audience.