Somebody’s trying to make an ass of me,
‘Tis sure. Methinks those rascals, Quince and Snout,
Gleek me for sport. I napped against a tree
And woke translated, with some thickskin lout
Calling me “Butthead,” saying I’d missed my cue.
“D’you want a chance at singing for the Queen
Or not?” says he. “Get up!” Next thing I knew
A groundling mob, well dressed but coarse & mean
(Unarmed with rotten eggs, for which I thanked
Dame Fortune), jeered my name & that sweet song
About my dream. “Sir Bottom’s gotten spanked,”
Cracks a rude wag in front. “Buzzed out! So long!”
‘Twas then (rare vision!) that She did appear—
A Lady all in gold, with ebon brows,
Singing the dream she dreamed. My dulcet dear,
May I not wake till we have ta’en our vows!
|