The Ides of March had come but its Sun was not yet cold when Spurinna reminded me what his augury had foretold
Some good men tried to warn me About the risks I take- But Caesar has no need of guards I look Death in the face.
Calpurnia asked me not to go Based on her silly dream But the Parthian war won’t be derailed By some Republican’s scheme
The supplicants surround me with petitions, Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away. Casca grabbed the draping of my toga and bared me, awkwardly, to start the fray.
The first dagger found my flesh and left a superficial wound. I wrested the dagger from his hands and swept the blade to clear some room.
They are too many that surround me. Too many of their thrusts strike home Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute” I cover my face to die alone.
Bleeding, powerless, dying, No one must see me as I lay. My dignity must be preserved for I am uncommon clay.