If there was one thing that the Bard was correct about,
it was that Hero had fallen into a pit of ink,
she was stained; the blackness of words tainting her skin,
with the words that didn't belong to her.
They didn't belong, but they stayed, her accusations of unfaithfulness
didn't fray, because the thing about words is that
they can stick, they're faithful, even if they don't fit,
and that they did, for the rest of her life,
[which was ten minutes, but even in her right]
people thought she was a stale, a grimance,
and the only way to escape her wanton rep-u
was to die a sorrowful death and rebirth,
as pure as a baby's breath and mirth
you gotta love 'speare, don't you?