The Tragedy of President Nixon

'For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings* By flu or common cold or treach'rous reason O sacred blood, spoil'd by these nasty things With sharpen'd points in envy hands of treason High stomac'd are my foes, and full of ire! Alas, my friends, it is the hunting season In rage deaf of my plea, hasty on fire I hear the Congress' howling, barking sound! I am disgrac'd, impeach'd and baffled here Purc'd to the soul with slanders venom'd spear!' *The tragedy of king Richard the second; act III, scene This form is an 'eleven'. See my other poem 'Image'.