Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only fearing
Adrien's vulgar indiscretions, Marx[1] of eaves-dropping in store:
"Though thy wings are torn and bleeding," said he, with a voice of pleading:
"Thou'rt a bird of royal breeding: thou hast flown from foreign shore." Quoth the Eagle, "Matamore."
Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,
"Silence," said he, "never utter memories of that field of gore,
Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious disaster
Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden bore— Never see Carlotta more."
Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking
How he'd forced the murdered Prince to leave his quiet home of yore;
How he'd made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite preceptor
Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that forbidding shore,
Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice stones implore. Quoth the Eagle, "Matamore."
↑ Adrian Marx, purveyor of Court news to The Figaro.
