If only every death,

every murder, every execution

and tight lipped soliloquy

moaned and driven through barbed poisoning

by the players upon the stage,

were as interesting as the company

made them, then Polonius would not have died

in vein, killed by a misty eyed word,

Ophelia would not have drowned

languishing in a painted scene

and slowly dying of hypothermia

and Hamlet, dear Hamlet,

the man whom of first I read

but as a young child in some hand me down

book, tattered but loved, creased and bent