Hope

Hope is a snake that curls within my breast,

A sharp-tongued viper aimed against my heart,

A blood-cold serpent, most unwelcome guest,

That strikes from time to time when I'm off-guard.

Hope is Scaramouche, a clever fool,

A honeyed braggart, slick, a worthless flirt,

A quack deceiver, lord of ridicule,

Who gulls my brain when I am not alert.

Hope is a misshaped bloom, a crooked tree,

Which grows unbidden in my dismal yard,

The soft, sweet fruit of which will poison me

If I desert my post, let down my guard.

But do not slay it--let the villain be;

For murder hope and murder all of me.