"In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad"

Great Bard, your works are immortal.
If only your life could’ve lasted as long.
The shrews are as untamable as ever
and their vulgarity requires the shelter
your words once offered.
The puckishness of the world is gone,
replaced by seriousness and anger.
Women have more power now,
but Portia will always hold more strength
than any female executive.
Your insults were so colorful:
I’d rather say, “Thou artless pox-marked strumpet,”
than “You ugly wh***,” any day.
You are sorely missed, dear William.
Your absence leaves a literary void
large enough to fill with all the words
of the English language.





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