I placed a sonnet-flow’r upon your grave,
thinking the bones ‘neath t’be this pilgrim’s grail…
C’nnected by a river, I wrote ‘n gave
my words to honour yours that mine availed…
T’was not The Man From Stratford, though, was it?
Your name scrawled scraggily on bills of sale;
your daughters (And yourself?) illiterate;
your lack of travel b’yond the London stage…
Businessman, amateur actor, false god
kept wrongly hallowed by th’malscholarship
of th’priests whose panicky, insecure job
it is to flail about with th’censor’s whip.
But hey, behind their guard you may sleep tight,
for when has heresy e’er proven right?
Epilogue:
It was not the man from Stratford(!)
It was not the man from Stratford‽
It was not the man from Stratford?
It was not the man from Stratford…
It was not the man from Stratford‽
It was not the man from Stratford!
It was not the man from Stratford.
Image credit – Getty Images
william altoft 