Does grow the Count of sleeping island’s host,
Of Monte Cristo, rarest ore reclaimed
From quarry. Forged of most refined boast,
For none shall see the likes of him again.
The fire hot enough to melt the bricks,
And bright enough to blind the smithy’s eye;
No weapon in creation does exist
To be at all like Monte Cristo’s spry.
Yet you, forget ye not the locust’s reign
And passing years of dungeon and duress
Time’s bankruptcy and loss of good champagne–
Of father, friend, betrayer, love undressed.
So enter, king of Cristo, with your jewels,
And boundless wealth, and kindness: pass these fools!