I've toured Chapultepec Castle a couple times, and once a tour guide portrayed the story of Maximilian refusing his escape like this: that he did not wish to risk getting caught without his beard, as that would be dishonorable (I suppose the modern take is it would be super embarrassing).
Nocturnal gardens under slowly ripening mangoes.
Maximilian dances what one day will be a tango.
His shadow twirls the way a boomerang does
and the temperature's an armpit 98.
The iridescent flicker of a silver waistcoat;
and a mulatto girl melts lovingly like chocolate
while in a masculine embrace she purrs insensate,
here—soft as wool, there—smooth as plate.
Nocturnal silence underneath the virgin forest.
Juarez, now the spearhead of, say, progress,
to his peons who never saw two pesos
distributes rifles in the dark of night.
Bolts start their clicking, while Juarez on squared paper
puts little crosses, ticking off each happy taker.
A gaudy parrot, one who never makes mistakes or
lies, sits on a bough and notes their plight:
Scorn for one's neighbor among those who sniff the roses
may be, not better, but more straight than civic poses.
But either thing gives quite a rise to blood and bruises.
Worse in the tropics, here, where death, alas,
spreads rather quickly in the way flies spread infection,
or as a bon mot in a cafe draws attention,
where three-eyed skulls among the thickets rate no mention;
in every socket—a clump of grass.