for nothing much. Except my two children.
Most any man could have done me this service.
There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
I drank your bitter poison, thou bunch-back toad,
hoping it would kill you, and prove the favor
of its flavor worthwhile. I scorn you, scurvy companion.
Strange bouquet of another woman’s perfume
masking your doggy scent, thou cheating lack-linen mate.
To the music of your lies, our babies sang out for me.
Thou infinite and endless liar, thou hourly promise breaker.
I blinkered my wide eyes, ignored the warning signs.
It’s why you chose me. Gullible. You knew
you could get away with murder.
Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.
Murder a bit strong, but not far off the mark.
I am sick when I do look on thee.
Away, you starvelling, you elf-skin. Go prick thy face.
Did we survive? The children and I? Not the way
we would have. It’s on your head.
Thank you, thou mustachio purple-hued maltworm.
— With quotes from All’s Well That Ends Well, Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2, Macbeth, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Measure for Measure, and The Merry Wives of Windsor
Click here to read Lillo Way on the origin of the poem.
“Falstaff in the Laundry Basket” painted by Henry Fuseli, 1792, and photographed by Alex-David Baldi on flickr.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
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