All very well for the sable prince to smile,
who , for his problems , paid the final price
solving them with the point of his wielded blade.

But I cannot slay the myriad scuttling rats
that have bred in my brain's arras through the years
and lugging the guts into a neighbour room
is not an option I would care to choose.

My walls breed a smarter kind of rat
than prying old Polonius could contemplate
and in those walls they run a complex maze
well learnt from long, long years of constant use
while building newer rodent catacombs.

My problems are not princely , nor of high import
nor yet enough to bring a pang to others .
They are no more than mundane ,nor deserve
more than watchers’ smiles at what's trivial.

Thus like the joker in his garb of black
I too will jest until my one solution,
considered deeply with objective thought,
might simply be to fall upon my sword.