Anne Hathaway's Diary

I love the boie Shagsper, a bit of a geke,
With sharp elbows, long legs and thick glasses.
And I've loved the boye Shaxpere best part of a week,
Though his shirt is a mess and his arse is
Hanging out of his trowsers, an utter disgrace,
And his stocking all holes, and his shaving
On Sundays and Thursdays puts spottes on his face.
He should care but he doesn't. He's raving.
But I love him. I love him. I love him so derely
I said he could watch me undressing.
And did he? He didn't. Knowe what? It's so reelly
Incredibly dull and depressing.
I sware he's not normal. I've told him he 's gay.
He just smiles in a secretive sort of a way.

I done this in poetry to impresse him when he redeth it.

A good one, John! How refreshing to encounter a non-IP sonnet. And it doesn't stop me doing Shugspore if an idea comes to me. In the meantime ...

(Samuel Pepys)

Monday. Up betimes and to school, where nothing of interest occurred. Bread and cheese for dinner. And so to bed.

Tuesday. Up betimes and to school, where nothing of interest occurred. Bread and cheese for dinner again. And so to bed.

Wednesday. My parents recently made me a gift of this diary, suggesting that I use it to record thoughts and events on a daily basis. But nothing of note to set down, and doubt whether I shall continue the attempt for more than a few days longer. It would be a different matter were something truly momentous to happen, such as an outbreak of plague, or London being burnt to the ground. But I think it fruitless to indulge in such fantastical imaginings, and shall probably abandon this wretched diary by the end of the week. After all, who would care to read such a thing?

Very amusing, Brian.

this diary shal my dayly life record
althogh there may be littel worth the telling
for life at scule no plesure can afford
my teecher doth complane about my spelling
my punctuatian and my want of lurning
and giveth greevous strokes upon the bumme
he mocketh me all deecent feeling spurning
“pray tell me william when thou shalt have cumme
to mans estait what woodst thou be hereafter?”
“a poet sir endowd with welth and fame”
“a poet? ha!” the techer rockt with lafter
“thou canst not even wryte thy propper name
and ‘wilium shaxper’ doth bespeke a foole”
so must I suffer endless days of sorow
and ever crepe unwyllingly to scoole
tommorow and tomorro and tomorow

John's and Brian's sonnets are looking pretty unbeatable to me. Fingers crossed that they're disqualified as verse!

I'm always being disqualified as verse.

If Betjeman could write his autobiography in verse, I don't see why others shouldn't have kept verse diaries.

Good point, Brian. We both shall win.

So glad I stopped by to read the great verse of Brian & John. Wow.

(Not that Brian's is a sonnet, as I now see. Silly me.)