John Clare
Am I so blind that I could not detect
   the hands of those that reach to cut my throat?
The soft whispers of planning architects
   to build gallows to hang me as they gloat.
I'll pluck the strings on every subtle plot
   to cut their strands, like the Gordian knot.

I'll play the part of fawning friend in need
   if that will identify all my foes.
I'll get down on my bended knees and plead
   if that will draw them out from deep shadows.
I'll get them close and cut them all to shreds
   then mount on high their ugly, shrunken heads.

I drink their wine and dine with their good wives
   and praise their friendship and their purity.
In back room chats they sharpen up their knives
   and build up my false sense of security.
All the while their time grows ever nearer
   and the pathway to my grave is ever clearer.

I paid the price for failing to observe,
   as I was blinded by my heavy crown.
They cried out that I got what I deserve
   as they crowded me, then coldly cut me down.
As my body burns to greying, ashen slag,
   Assassins start their pompous, whining brag.

Julius Caesar, Roman general and statesman, was born today in 100BC.

John Clare, English romantic poet, was born today in 1793.

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