What a piece of work is man!
How bereft of reason,
how empty of all empathy.
In parliamentary motions,
how self-serving and despicable.
In action, how like a demon.
In comprehension, how like a clod.
I have of late, and clearly I know why,
lost all my mirth.
I exercise my democratic right
to dispossess the powerful
of their parliamentary dealings
with the dispossessed of other lands,
sending them to some sterile promontory.
But yet I fail to change the tide.
Alas, poor folk. I wish I knew them.
They have borne their kin upon their backs
and braved the roiling seas
to escape the canon’s mouth,
only to perish
on the rocks of our indifference.
To those who make the rules,
all the world’s a stage
and those not of their liking,
men and women and children,
Like whining schoolboys
they dispense injustice.
With a woeful blathering,
full of strange oaths,
sudden and quick in quarrel,
they seek to weld their reputations.
Careless in their call to arms,
they nurse no cares
for those who wield no power.