Guy De Vere, Not So Sincere

After Lenore, by Edgar Allan Poe Broken—yes—the golden-locked and beautiful Lenore, Gone from us forevermore, to grace our eyes no more. And thou, De Vere, who scornful stands with hollow, cold disdain— It’s clear to all, thy mournful cries are pitiful and vain. Let the exequy commence! Let sorrow find its voice, While thou, false mourner, face thy fate—be judged for thy dark choice. A dirge for golden Lenore... a sentence for thy choice. Wretched art thou—who dared to love, yet sowed death’s bitter seed, For ‘twas her gold you hungered for, and slew her out of greed. How shall the charges now be read? What scaffold shall we raise? By us—the wretched throng—who cry for justice in these days. For her sweet death lies not with fate, but thee who bears bloodguilt. Peccabilis—yes, thou art! And parricida still, For murder foul, thy cursed soul we doom to deepest hell. Fair Lenore lies cold and low by her false lover’s hand, Who slew his bride for avarice, and hungered for her land. And now she sleeps beneath the soil, while thou dost breathe and lie, With golden light upon her hair—but death within her eye. The light remains upon her locks—yet thou didst let her die. Conticent! Beastly ruffian—thy lies shall mask no more, The cry went up, the charge is set: blood calls from every door. Let the noose be drawn to avenge Lenore’s sweet soul, And when thy breath is choked away, we’ll cast thee in a hole. The fiends below await thy shade to feast upon thy boast, While Lenore ascends in light to join the heavenly host. For grief thou sowed when death thou wrought— And now thy soul shall roast.