On this absolute day of days, fate would coil and interject justly and injust.
Among thy Autumn air that night, villanous villany; Or clashing thane?
A mad truth, scattered in forggy disdane.
Here we see young Marcus, soldier of West-Side. Clad in cotton smocks, and
fancy rouge kerchief blanketing his head. Mouse of a man, Yet not in form. In thy lords
service; To whit a debt he owes. a thin face, gaunt and clean, with two beads for eyes,
cold as twilight.
" What be you? West, Or East?"
Marcus bluntly asked the man standing cross inder walk.
This man best described "Green behind the ear"
Short and stout, but a boy among cad.
He dress in similar smock, though his kerchief white.
"Free as the sun I start this day as ever;
East to West"
Gauntly standing, shoulders draped.
Jawls snapping like gar,
"What prevy thee, quaint and qualm! Have thee quarrel?!"
He bantered, demanding.
This boy no stranger to the conflicts of morn and eve.
"Mad be thee! Duke of Dim! This is the East! No sun setting here!"
He gestured to a pistol
Bewildered and begot, Marcus was at these accusations.
"Knave! I seek not quarrel, but question."
The boy drew on him snapping once more.
"Black tongue! Mercy you beg, I bit my thumb at thee!"
Blasting iron and shrieks, leave our misfit hero
slew in the street. So shouldever a moral bedrawn, from this senseless act....
"Never be in the right place at the wrong time"