There are no rhymes to play among
within the grave. There are no songs
that can be sung within the grave.
There poets must be dead
and let their poems misbehave.
On the very day it was proven that William Shakespeare’s grave had been disturbed soon after burial, I purchased Oliver, my lovely green parrot. A strange coincidence, for I came to believe that Oliver was the reincarnation of the Bard himself. Continue reading “Shakespeare’s Other Grave”
I carry on this life for the merry sake of comedy.
Bring me my jester’s cap, for I weep
and, as I weep, perhaps the fairy-bells will ring.
Where is my motley? Do not be afraid. Continue reading “The Jester”