Oh Fools!
The pain, the unheeded advice-
Oh Feste, oh gravediggers, oh Fools!

Hiding behind the garb of jesters,
I hear your truth.
I know the fate sleeping in the riddle.

Alas! Poor Yourick knows it well.
For that which lives must die,
And that which dies has no tongue,
No verbage to warn.

Whilst the kings laugh
At morbid jokes,
The Fool sheds a tear,
For behind all good jests
Is a terrible truth.

When the joker comes out to play,
Do we not laugh with the crowds?

And when the clown is on the walkway,
Does joy not fly among the clouds?

It will rain on us on our days too dry,
When the hum of people runs out,

When we hear the sound of the battlecry,
We call our jokesters from his hideout.