Harlequinade

Clod, lump, patch or fool

Larding the earth when caught

At last by that crocodile.

No matter how oft Punch

Raps his head, he is dead

But he won't lie down.

The ticking clock

Which pursued Captain Hook

Will one day stop

And Hook will find

No crock of gold

At his rainbow's end.

The bony jester

Takes by the arm

The deathless pretender,

Dons costume and bells

And hauls him below

To cure all ills.

The antic Hamlet hears

The songs that Yorick sang,

Plays with the chops

Where lips once hung

And waits for funeral

Bells to ring.

The smell of a sconce

Carries fumes of what once

He was. A fool digs a grave

For the Prince of Fools

To fight for the corpse

Of a love he has lost.

The end will come soon

Of the harlequinade,

A bedding at noon

To the ring of a spade

And a skull full of dust

Where the poor fool played.

©Terry Hodgson2025