A little more than kin, a little less than kind
of this post-haste and rummage in the land (in the land)
Madness, mad north-north-west
to grunt and sweat under a weary life.
Denmark's a prison. Words, words, words.
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal
like a whore, unpacks my heart
with words. The sun breeds maggots
in a dead dog, good kissing carrion.
This time is out of joint.
It's as easy as lying to
play upon this pipe,
this mortal coil.
Wit's diseased. How now? A rat?
Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, time
agrees. Ecstasy. Thought-sick the act.
No man has aught of what he leaves;
a little more than kin, a little less than kind
of this post-haste and rummage in the land.
The rest is silence.
(g'night sweet prince)
o cursed spite that ever i was born to set it right!
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