His kingdom, for a hearse! No greater love
hath nation for its tyrant than a grave
unmarked. What heart still moves
to witness the sepulchre of that knave
whose pyramid stands pointless to this day,
long-looted carapace of earthly power?
We rather look upon his works and say
“A king may strut about for his short hour,
sed utique, omnes mortales sumus!”
More sinister by far’s the one who leaves
no marker for his grand process to humus;
thus that rare regicide with wisdom grieves
the hidden death, which more should move to ire:
covered in petrol, in a ditch, on fire.


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