MOTECUHZOMA
            My lowly hoop of servile sycophants
            Arise to stands of judges, triple-tiered,
            Grave, gyral, escalating arbiters,
            Who shake their damnatory, hooded heads
            At me- Their blotch, their convict, and their prey, 
            Caught in their spotlight of interrogation,
            To twitch and quiver in disclosure’s sight.
            And now, what plan can salvage my appeal?