by Indie Stone
Good
William’s appellations 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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