Thou art a boil
I lose the plot some time before the king,
prior to fairest daughter’s doting crime;
a wretched knave beside me opening
gourmet crisps: sweet chili, hint of lime.
What Cordelia says I cannot hear
for crunching of the most horrific kind.
Though Lear’s anger comes through loud and clear,
my fury makes me think I’ve lost my mind.
He perpetrates a hurt that’s yet more grating
than any this sad king thus far perceives:
the plague sore sitting to my right’s now vaping!
Such pungent odours my fair nose receives!
Realising the white hate that he hath bred,
he takes his leave before I break his head.