Ha! Allesandra I see your three lines and raise you a whole speech!
No matter where; of carparks no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write Bosworth on the sorrow of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our dead body to the carpark?
Our lands, our life and all are rank Tudors.
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the carpark earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit under the carpark
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some ticketed for overstay,
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the attendant sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his overstay,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this carpark which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through this carpark wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads and mock not car park fines
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and pay as you go tickets,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?