I taste Othello in a cup of coffee,
And Desdemona in a bit of toffee,
And I can feel Iago trickling off me,
And down I pour the dregs into the drain.
It tastes Italian! Shakespeare must have meant it.
The rule of meter -- how he slyly bent it!
(And did the villain afterwards repent it?)
I have the poems burned across my brain.
Emilia's smile of all was the most fleeting;
Good Cassio was warmest in his greeting.
The ice froze Venice, all the snowflakes bleating
Like orphaned lambs without their mothers' milk.
The opera is over -- long since ended!
My thoughts are flying to places unintended.
Shakespeare, please tell me, will my heart be mended?
He smothered her upon a bed of silk.