But in ourselves

Being that we are nothing more than Caesar's underlings

Underfoot we shall remain if this false idol doth gain a crown

Take your time to decide Brutus, for

In your hands, rests the freedom of mankind

No wiser a decision, will your soul be asked to postulate

Over the centuries, the consequence of your choice has been played

Usurped by Shakespeare, these choices have been rewritten in an Elizabethan fashion

Right or wrong, they have fallen gracefully from countless actors tongues

Shrouded by an epoch of sublime literary mystery

Enshrined like a corpse, in the fabled playwright's history

Lest a mortal of greater imagination is born, to transcribe a resurrection, across the

Vastness of space and time, so perhaps it will not be in our stars

Each century has its stars, perhaps this one will be written in the sands of Mars

So, until then, let's keep this little gift in our stars, where we belong

Footnote: This gift is dedicated to NotInOurStars, the acrostic poem 'Pot of Gold' produced by the author during the Poet of the Year challenge, was a delightful and wonderful tribute to the Pub.