Princess Poem by Stephen Taylor

On a street in France
On a dark night
Death showed his face
To a princess and her knight

Racing at speeds
Hard to conceive
They made his job easy
For death, it was a breeze

A wall of steel
A chariot made of tin
Mix them with speed
You will find your end

Lying in her chariot
The princess half dead
She died on the way
So they said

Hamlets father
Asleep on his bench
A dropp of poison
And be done with the wench