Under A Bipolar 19th Century Sun

Poor, poor Jekyll worked at home.
He had no friends and ate alone;
Three feet of dust entombed his phone!

But in his cellar, undebated,
A secret potion was created;
His good and evil separated!

Dear old Jekyll morphed to Hyde,
A man of snark, and constant snide;
The tragic irony of pride!

Throughout the months, Hyde would appear
To sew his special brand of fear;
He’d download files, peer to peer!

When Utterson saw Hyde, his head hit the roof
And he lumped off to Lanyon to learn him the truth;
’Cause that ornery buzzard had right firsthand proof!

Then, like a pinprick to a bubble,
Jekyll realized he was in trouble;
His chemical test had birthed a double!

He creeped out Lanyon, who passed away
And took dire secrets with him to his grave;
That the sky isn’t blue- or bleu en français!

Secrets, of course, Utterson would find out,
Leading him to storm Jekyll’s abode with a pout;
“Working hard, hardly working?!” he’d gleefully shout!

Amid cauldrons and beakers he and Poole had found Hyde.
Or perhaps they had Jekyll, a twin suicide;
Either way it was over, a Pyrrhic riptide!

Jekyll’s body is worm food, his soul is at rest.
Yet sealed in his lab rots the fruits of his quest;
Who will next drink the potion? Feel free. Be my guest.