Alas! poor Yorick
his head is disturbed.
His skull’s been exposed
for hundreds of years
with holes that were once
eyes, nose and ears.
He’s only just realised
he’s Yorick, the Late.
Words have been bandied
over his pate
far too profound
for the mind of a Fool.
He can’t understand it at all.
Poor Yorick, alas
his body is gone.
What he wants is a grave
not a place on the stage,
somewhere to rest,
his poor addled head
hopefully blessed,
in a place he belongs,
now he’s dead,
very dead,
very finally gone.
I hope he’s in heaven,
not hell.
Who can tell.
Alas poor Yorick,
poor Yorick,
farewell.