Richard III

The winter of our discontent
I have no reason to breathe resentment
and the sulfurous mouths of hell.
The unhealthy desire for vengeance and the power of the sword,
Must not soothe unspeakable cravings of female songs
And of the abysses of life-giving nature.
I have no reason to rejoice in the dismay at my deformities
reflected in the gazes of women
Who would never aspire to my gnarled rod.
I look in the mirror and after a hearty libation,
I can still appreciate my disheveled asymmetries,
my features full of black angles and unruly geometries,
an outrage to the polite perfection of the marble columns of Ravenna
and hymn to the malevolent flickers of the gargoyles of France.
Clarence, who on earth is he?
What does my brother want of me, why does he press me?
And why do I press him,
When I could enjoy the gilded pillory of my castle?
I don't want to be king nor tamer of crowds.
I don't want horses in my kingdom.
I don't want to kill my brothers, nor innocent foxes.
Unfortunately, I am not the one who decides
And there are no chamberlains who rise up against decency
And smile at the bloodshot eyes of the screwers.
Come to think of it, I am not even Richard III,
I am a bystander awaiting the era when the deformed
Will be called by another name
And they can dance the Carola without shame