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.
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