Sonnet CXXVIII

Ophelia is lying in her death,
reanimated for a dismal fate.
She lies in sewage, wasting dying breath.
While hunting for her substinence, she waits.

What happened to her lucent skin, so fresh?
Her high-exalted status and her mate?
What of her family and happiness?
Her pride and joy and carefree, happy ways?

Ophelia’s a frog, the shameful beast.
She loves no more and feels no happiness.
She hunts for flies. She’s selfish, crude, and brusque.
Destroyed by everyone, she’s awfully beat,
cares not if all the world has gone amiss.

What fitting joy for such a joyful mess!