Who chose you?
Be it the coward in the corner
Trembling with fear
Hath he no honour?
Or that cold blooded killer
With the smirk across his cheeks
And the blade between his claws
Hath he no honour either?
To judge and to be judged
You have no right
But hath you the right
To love and to be loved
For who you are
Yes
For you are honour
Wear it upon your sleeve
Across your heart
And in your head
Pray it never leaves
And he will never leave
A poem inspired by Falstaff's monologue during act 5 scene 1 of the Shakespeare play Henry IV (Part 1) the monologue reads
"Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. ‘Tis insensible, then. Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism."
During his monologue the lovable coward Falstaff explores the idea of honour and what it is, for he is not an honourable solider and cowers at the thought of battle. In my response I debate who it is who chooses whether we wear the metaphorical badge of honour and what the meaning of the word is.
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