Hamlet, let thee suffer in a bed o' thorns,
Sharp and dangerous they puncture your soul,
Let these holes release your humanity
Hiding under a layer of arctic ice,
You've cast your celestial spell on me,
Left me to wither in a state of angst,
Where upon me has been urged the duty,
To pray the rosary for thou mercy,
Violets and rue for thou guilt-heavy heart,
Pray you, love no more my absolute dear.
- Ophelia
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