Sonnet from the Porch de Guise

'Nobility' is SUCH a lame excuse
(A steaming coil) for staying suicide
(A mortal one). I say, rig up the noose
And double-check the pipe to which it's tied,
Lest you end up like Stanley Moon, all wet
And dick'ring with the devil for your soul,
By Julie Andrews and odd socks beset,
And not an angstrom closer to your goal
Of killing Margaret Spencer... wait, I mean
Of marrying Claudius. Shit, that's still not right.
What dreams make humble fry cooks split the scene
Eternally? What makes a prince contrite
Enough to bear his fardles finally hence?
They're fools that chase post-mortem recompense.