Thy final bow

The stage is set, the lamp grows pale, Thou donned falsehoods, like knightly mail. A grand applause, thou didst receive... Yet truth, sweet sir, thou didst deceive. Thou played thy part, with craft and guile, Each tear thou wept - didst lack all style. But lo! The script hath met its end... No verse - remaineth to defend. Go, take thy bow and leave this stage, Thy lies no more, shall feed mine rage. No curtain drawn for thee this night... For I, not thou, didst win the fight. With lifted brow I turn away, Whilst thine own shame, shall long outstay. I gave mine all, thou gav’st me naught... Yet from thy wreck, strength hath been brought.