The Lamentable Tale of Osrick and his many hats

Remember the good-old days before Fortinbras ,when Denmark was ruled by Claudius and good king Hamlet. Why a person could buy land as quick as that and everyone knew where to hang their hat. Remember that?

I certainly do but oh how we mourn the death of the past it is a shame none of it could last. And here it seemed to change so very fast, what with that violent bombast. The way Horatio tells it makes a hero of that prince git. The one who looked nothing like his father King Hamlet and whose head, well, I would like to knock any hat off of it. A baseball cap, a Richie Washburn hat, a derby, a top hat, any style from Elsinore to Surrey, if he has a head, even if it is in his ghostly bed, and he is trying to take a nap, boom, off with his night cap. 

In these modern times, a hat is needed even more, and it is ever such a chore, to make sure all the skin is covered, just taking every follicle and make sure it is smothered. Well, if I had my druthers, a hat would be for more than for show, a fashion statement but much much more. ‘Cause that is the best we call can adore, the finest hat collection from shore to shore, how ever hair is shorn, for joy and fun, will I a hat adorn. 

Now Fortinbras, ugh, that name I hate to the last, don’t worry I am in a safe space, so I don’t have to worry about his wrath. He claimed this country through bureaucratic nonsense, and took all my lands in recompense. Don’t make any sense. He just made enemies of those who should have been his landed friends. What a nitwit I mean that is truly dense. And despite his warlike frame, and desire for every lasting territorial fame, his domestic policy isn’t quite the same. Global warming and climate change, isn’t that strange? Coming in with foreign marts and cannons contemptible, his homeward bend is seemingly more responsible. But for me, it is lamentable. For hats must be of a certain style, I can’t wear any of my hats, especially the ones that are edible. “They are not of the proper grade, they do not provide appropriate shade.” Ugh, and his law book requires me to heave and lug, it is so big, I couldn’t put my arms around it to hug. All the laws and endless policy, it is like you need to read just to be part of this “democracy.” Or so he calls it, I just think it is for Denmark he doesn’t give a shit. He got it to win back his daddy’s honor, a war victory, a national gentleman caller. He doesn’t care if we rise, fall or, melt or thaw into a dew, he cares only for himself and not me nor you. Regardless of what his health statutes seem to do. I don’t care what his mandate says, I should be allowed to wear anything I want, from gator skin cap to an ornate fez. 

But oh, the days before of the golden age, when that pipsqueak prince was still quite young in age, when the height of comedy, Yurick of what was funny was the gage. Back then, the kingdom for a stage, why, every moment felt as fascinating as a turn of the page. I was beloved and so were all of us, by the adored King Hamlet and his brother King Claudius. They would make sure to look out and were not rude, and always a friendly hello from the marvelous Queen Gertrude. Isn’t it great, the impression of regality did she always exude. There were rumors, but I can’t imagine anything happening that was lewd. Life happens, death happens, we are people all in all, I just can’t believe that anything that happened was anyones fault. Unless, if it was the Prince, the one who galled everyone and nearly took down the kingdom by assault. Before, it seems we were impervious to change, under absolutely no danger. Reveling and celebrating our victories, as powerfully did we lament our sadness, our melancholies. Surely, that matters for something, the image of a country is represented by those who are ruling. With the two kings, it was loving, save for that child prince and all his bickerings. He only cared for his own head and to other people’s hats, he treated poorly, it was insulting. 

Now, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the sad lot, they lost their heads cause they slept too soundly in ships cots. Ain’t that the rub? Never saw them once wear a hat no siree bub. And who was the one to lead them to their demise, I’ll give you one guess as to who would such a plan devise. That is right, the evil one who is thankfully gone from out of sight. No more do I need to bow my brim, no more behind his back do we have to cringe. To be or not to be, please. Only infants think only in duality. What is existence but found in the in between. He was destined to be unseen. He never wore a hat unless he thought it makes him look keen. That is not the point of hats, they can be styled, yes, they can help the rank and file, but they are the very chronicle of the age, way way way more so than those folks who go on stage. They fight and rate about, but it is us landowners, who in good times, we are the ones who stay strong and stout. You know, everyone believes it was either Claudius or Laertes, to kill the boy, but they were just the tease, the secretly replaced soy, the virus before the disease. They weren’t the meat, they weren’t the capper on the top, if you please. All those self indulgent plots, well, they didn’t really help much, not a lot. But when we landowners did the deed, well, that is when this country was freed. Sure sure, they had the poison tipped, but Laertes only nipped. When no one was looking, I doubled dipped. And slashed him right above the hip. Ain’t that a trip? Well, it all worked well until Gertrude took that sip. She probably would have married Fortinbras, and then we would have had a true ruling class. Gertrude could keep anyone in line, for she was lovely. She was sublime. Ok, perhaps her and I were an item, she loved all of my hats, said any who said different that she would fight’em. So there you have it, a hatched plan that nearly worked but didn’t. Now, we are all clothes without the top, just aimless props. And that is the story from the bottom to the top, and I promise there was not a single lie. Not a drop. And to this story forever will I stick. and this is my lamentable tale of the many hats of the once great Osrick.