October 5, 2008
Though none of us canst 'scape that black-draped cart
That slowly draws us towards our dying bed,
Alack, poor Will, of timeless skill and art
Has kept his wits but lost his very head!
Upon his severed baldpate dully gleams,
Reflected twixt his rooted tufts of hair,
A scene of child-like monsters held by seams;
Felt hands that grasp, glass eyes to weep and stare.
Of these young babes, who 'mongst us could have thought
That they wouldst have the hearts to maim and kill?
While Nanny worked to wash out some damned spot,
These tiny tyrants, creeping, had their Will!
Animal, thy daisy-petaled bonnet,
Hides not thy sin, nor stifles it this sonnet.
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2009 Those Aren't Muskets!