i stood before the mirror,
pale as a powdered lie,
with strands the colour of fallen empires
and dignity rubbed dry.

the bleach had no mercy,
the dye had no aim —
i emerged from the wreckage
with only myself to blame.

my scalp, a battlefield,
my pride, a powdered wig.
i whispered threats to heaven
with a plastic comb so big.

the townsfolk fled in silence,
the moon refused to rise,
and even my reflection
looked away from my disguise.

somewhere between brass and madness,
i found a kind of grace —
the lord of bad decisions,
with toner on my face.

so let the ships keep sinking,
let the storm winds howl and hiss —
i’m lord cutler beckett, darling,
and i was born for this.