Last time I saw Hamlet,
he looked like he’d seen a ghost,
as if he lacked the strength
to spread syrup on his toast.
Ever since his father died,
he has brooded in crow black.
He looks less like a prince,
more a hermit in a shack.
I’m just a castle cook,
but I see what’s going on.
Ophelia drifts by,
paler than a moonlit swan.
Come now, gifted playwright,
with your parchment, ink and quill,
be the scribe to Prince Hamlet,
while he is yet with us still.
Put on stage your drama,
though it ends in tragedy.
What’s at the root of things
make us brave enough to see.
Last time I saw Hamlet,
he was staring at his shoes,
seemed to be suffering
from some post-Renaissance blues.