A Reluctant Shakespearean Sonnet
My God! Again, I must study the Bard,
An endless trickle of dusty wordplay.
For the task of Portia was not this hard,
Nor did Ophelia's lot seem so grey!
The words drip coldly, like Iago's bile
And leave me feeling, like Bottom, an ass.
Like Romeo I want to flee a mile,
Leave behind Toby Belch's words, so crass.
The Porter may ask "Who knocks there without?"
Though I, like Titus, care more what's within.
That anyone laughs at Falstaff I doubt.
But my Antony's speech is thought a sin,
And clearly my view is really quite rare,
So exit me then, pursued by a bear.