Known by skull
To one and all,
Poor Yorick,
So funereal,
No features facial,
Yet, we know him, Horatio.
So metaphoric,
Poor Yorick!
To laugh or cry
At his hollow eye,
Like a graveyard
Whistled by,
Is it death or
Doom or
Gallows humor?
Yorick. Yorick,
None the worse is
Lying long with
Pocky corses,
Mad fellow,
Teeth so yellow
Hung once with lips
That launched
A thousand quips
Setting tables a roar,
And for a finish,
A flagon of Rhenish
As a hex on
A poor sexton.
Man of dust or
Infinite Jest,
To amuse or
Appall us,
Abuse or
Enthrall us
A la
David Foster Wallace.
So Hamlet was royal,
Horatio, loyal.
Claudius, odious
And likely nuts,
Polonius, a lug of guts,
Ophelia, misused and put upon.
Gertrude, strumpet, courtesan.
Rosencrantz, a snitch,
Gravedigger, a stitch,
Guildenstern, lickspittle.
Osric, fay, a little,
Laertes, a ne’er-do-well,
Fortinbras, the heir to all.
But Yorick, Yorick!
Our paregoric,
Tell us
Is it doom and dust
Or laughter?
The grave
Or happy times
We, modern men
In a dam panic pandemic of
Virus germs,
Ask you, Yorick...
Man of worms.