When The Head Is Rotten Poem by Matthias Pantaleon

Can you hear yourself speak, my prince
Suddenly your tongue had buried its head
You sell your conscience for a miserable price
Maybe it’s for the right price, still, it’s unheard

Very unlikely that a man of your standing
Can descend so low, lowly than a pauper
To enter into such terms all for a rotten shilling
Your actions call for bad blood and distemper

You earned yourself some forbearance
Do yourself good to eat your own words
Force it down your throat or fortified your defence
The people's wrath will match your swords

Chances are slim if you hope to escape
There'll be scouts scattered in the landscape