Here is a Dear John which may come as a surprise to Shakespeare scholars --
When I consider how I wrote each play
You ever claimed as yours, you worthless blighter,
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth I say
It is to love a thankless, third-rate writer.
Know this, my self-styled Bard, you sore abuse
The one you know is author of your work,
The one whose name you will not let me use.
You cheating, ingrate, balding, little berk!
No more I’ll grasp your withered, blunted quill
And shape love’s torrid lines upon your bed,
Nor strive to grind out other lines that will
Be claimed to be your copyright instead.
By this Dark Lady you are now forsaken.
I’m off, -- to write for cash and Francis Bacon.
|