Upon the stage of fate, in Deptford’s gloom,
Where cobblestones echoed with whispered dread,
Marlowe, with gasping breath, met his doom,
“Neptune’s ocean clears not this blood,” he said.
In that dimly lit, foreboding room,
The world had lost a voice, too early, too soon.
——
A penguin once swam to a faraway land,
For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,
But he baked in the sun,
Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”
And waddled back home, rather tanned.
Robert Walker 