A Poet Must Die

As the court lies in session,
All the ladies feign a sigh.
With a cloth laced with velvet,
They dry the tears in their eyes.

They’re calling out my name,
And an eerie silence falls.
Out I come, with my shame,
In your blind and blackened hall.

For every borrowed phrase,
For every little lie,
For the songs that you sing,
All through the night.

For the voices that you hear,
And all your wasted tries.
For the scars that you bear,
A poet must die.

There is just no one to blame,
Their voices are all true.
Point your bony fingers to my face,
Et tu brute, et tu.

Oh father, don’t you look at me,
Mother, don’t you cry.
Brother, sport some apathy,
And save it till I die.

For the things that you see,
For the secrets that you hide.
For the things that you say,
And all your demons inside.

For all the voices that you hear,
For all your reasons why.
And for all your treasons and deceits,
A poet must die.