[John Whitworth]

Comp 2593: William Shakespeare’s Dear John

It’s not because you’re bald (though hair is good).
It’s not because you’re fat with all that drinking.
It’s not because you can’t do what you could
Before, before you messed it up with thinking.
It’s not because you make a lot of noise.
It’s not because you like a bit of rough.
It’s not because you fool around with boys
And then pretend you don’t – the usual stuff.
I’ll tell you what it is. It’s all this ART,
It’s all this POETRY, it’s all this SHITE.
You like it better when we stay apart
Because it gives you extra time to write.
I’ve found a guy who’s culture-free and funny,
A simple guy who’s into making money.

I think there are a lot of reasons why this will not win. One is, of course,that it's not good enough. Two is that the rude word may be too rude for Lucy. And three might be that I have entered it for a competition before. I think I may have, but I can't remember what competition that might have been. Any of you help here.

I have sent this in but I think I might try again under the name of Phoebe Flood.

[Maryann Corbett]

Marion, I laughed out loud.

[Marion Shore]

Maryann, glad you liked it. I blush to admit I laughed when she tells him to marry his sword, horse and shield.

John, I love it. Can't imagine "shite" is so naughty these days--especially since "shite," to me, anyway, sounds more poetic than "shit".
Do people really use pseudonyms? Go for it, Phoebe!

[John Whitworth]

This is a limerick by Bob Conquest. I assume other Spherians agree with you about these being cuddly words

A usage that's seldom got right
Is when to say 'shit' and when 'shite',
And many a chap
Will fall back on 'crap'
Which is vulgar, evasive and trite.

[FOsen]

Don't worry, John

Whether it’s dried out or puddly,
Is flushed or thrown out or tracked muddily,
Is oblong or balled,
Whatever it’s called,
We’ll never regard it as cuddly.

Frank

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Frank!

[Martin Parker]

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.