Back in the time of Rome sublime,
There lived great Julius Cæsar
Who wore the crown with haughty frown
And was a frosty geezer.
Three times, they say, upon the way
Called Lupercal, they fetched it
For him to wear, but then and there
He said they should have stretched it.
And we are told that Jule was cold
And frigid as Alaska,
Ambitious, too,—that would not do
For Cassius and Casca.
They told their friends: “It all depends
On having things to suit us.
We think that Jule is much too cool;
Let us conspire with Brutus.”
They furthermore let out this roar:
“Shall Cæsar further scoff us?
Next week, they say, he’ll have his way
About the Rome postoffice.”
With dirk and sword in togas stored—
You know those times they wore ’em—
They made a muss of Ju-li-us
One morning in the Forum.
With “Et tu, Brute?” J. C. grew mute.
(Some claim it’s “Et tu, Bru-te”;
We mention it both whole and split
As is our bounden duty.)
Mark Antony arose, and he
Talked some,—we shall not quote it;
We’ve understood ’twas not as good
As when Bill Shakespeare wrote it.
Then Brutus skipped lest he be nipped—
And since his dissolution
He’s been accused and much abused
In schools of elocution.