Good Prospero: A Satire

We remember a prince, good Prospero,

who, from the Red Death, hid.

His craven face, never to show,

Till all the people, he was rid.

Closing the gate, welding it shut,

One-thousand revelers inside.

From the disease, they were now cut,

Rescued by Prospero’s pride.

Like a rooster, proud and vain,

He did strut, he did parade,

While outside, a million cries of pain,

Ignored by the masquerade.

The clock struck twelve, midnight,

And who did the revelers find?

A figure, red cape taking flight,

A corpse in death’s iron bind.

Now Prospero was sometimes a witless fool,

A spineless coward, too.

But seeing this, he lost his cool,

With a blade he did pursue.

Yet how can one content with death?

Poor Prospero, not with hate.

It’s cold touch, icy breath,

Thus was Prospero’s fate.