by Indie Stone
Good William's appellation so countless,
His contribution to speech generous,
His plays sparking words multitudinous,
In his absence, where would we be: worthless.
What's done is done, said the Lady Macbeth,
All the world's a stage, for goodness' sake,
A sorry sight and into the jaws of death,
The game is up; it's just a wild goose chase.
Fight fire with fire, until his words tickle,
With bated breath, the world is my oyster,
The sound of silence, all in a pickle,
Praise good Will Shakes, don't be a green-eyed monster.
Say, come what may, let sleeping dogs lie,
Exeunt, Adieu, his words won't cease to die.
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