I've been reading a lot of Spenser, Herbert, and Milton lately for school and the amazing thing about good poetry is that it sticks to you. So, in a burst of sudden inspiration this morning, I penned this tragic lament. This is my first, rough version--improvements may be made to the wording/meter as ideas come to me. On The Passing of a Set of Whiskers, Thought Little of in This Life, But Well-Praised in the Next. Ah, Barbara, I call upon thee to witness, The Fate, so sad, which has befallen one So meek and humble. I speak of one Set of Whiskers, poor and needy, Which, though not skilled in the divers arts of war, Nor in the dark secrets of Magic; Hath nonetheless become, by a lacking of not of Its own, a terrible offense and stumbling block, The overthrow of many. But how young and innocent! Scarce but three days Old, they have hardly tasted of life and yet have Borne so great a hatred! Now they gather round, the brutish throng, crying For Blood; and against him of no offense they press, “Shave” is all their voice. The hands move, forced by dint of shame and Cowardice; a sprinkling of clean water on the fingers And face—surely this is innocence? The Blade is brought up, death comes in slow and Even strokes. The clamor of the people is stilled as The Whiskers are led out quietly. They who gave no harm to any in this world, Gladly join the glorious throng in the next, Secure from all troubles. Nor shall their sacrifice pass vainly by, for Tomorrow their brothers, as yet small and hidden, Shall rise up in triumph. | 
