In truth, I’m still baffled—my command direct,
My evidence compelling, leaving no doubt
As to the proper action or its object,
And yet the boy womanishly walked about
Nattering on in verse, racked by guilt and shame.
His questioning and inconstancy—for what?
The result—little thanks to him!—was the same,
With the unforeseen benefit of a glut
Of innocent corpses to augment his sins,
A shameful, wanton waste of the stuff of life
And blameless dead scattered about like nine-pins
All in the name of childish fretting and strife.
I am ashamed—the brooding, the pointless rage;
A man does what needs be, then gets off the stage.