it really never remains in the hands of shakespeare, that's for schoolchildren ridiculed by rubrics of language arithmetics, the placebos of their day & age, transmuted into the current state of affairs... no, poetry properly recognised is what it always was, and i know mine will never be... i concede the inability to capture the hogmanay spirits (my new year always began with the ushering in of autumn anyway) - and that people will always congregate above all else, in pauper or kingly attire over a song like robert burn's auld lang syne than some pompous recitation of hamlet, and if i can be the person who peers into this vase of irritability made consummate in periodical fashion, i will be the first, if not the last, to make due, of the verses written for song, and verses written for the long: forgot. seems to me, that shakespeare is no match, however much his genius is ornamented with countless revisions and reinterpretations, for a single effort overshadows the man, and auld lang syne does just that: it credits the work, but by popular consensus, discredits the man, as is well known, that shakespeare "didn't exist"... which is what happens, when you leverage a perfection in a work, like a god's undertaking, who left no signature, with only his work being respected, the man behind it is left abandoned, history speaks nought of him, the work remains, but only as a remnants of a man... which is why it's hard to contend, for a verse of communal warmth that auld lang syne imbues... you will not find a crowd's worth of shakespearean recitations, no king nor pauper alike in the graft of song upon the harsh paved streets as the bell-tower strikes the hour count to pass midnight past eve into the day of: welcoming the end of yesteryear; for all the actors that have spoken, the people speak first, foremost, and they don't speak shakespeare first, they speak robert burns first; and no word of truth or lie, could ever turn into song, even if written by shakespeare or not... oh this mindless craft, from greece of said, to scotch of sang, there is barely a room for effort in mindlessly avoiding the two: make amends, take to choosing either plot, but choose either, than the meddling middle-man amends of the crude antics of keeping to rhyme!

i love 'em, esp. the natives born,
the jingle and the jive -
i love them because i love
their stale - their dublin burnt
amber of a pint's worth
of guinness - and yes:
i'm not a real shamrock fan,
neither are ye -
  hibernian can become siberia
for all i care...
  but i love them with a hint
of tease -
   their catholicism is like
greek orthodoxy -
  they have to stress their
irish in the plotline -
odd to see the nuance though,
that the transgender movement
accelerated into commotion
when the unearthing of
the *nag hammadi library happened
in 1945... suddenly every single
******* word is sacred...
    r. d. laing in his **** of paradise,
oh ****: bird of paradise
knew - turn the one inside out,
then turn the other inside out,
and attempt to meet in the middle -
what a, strange "coincidence"!
i'll have to r.e.m. this *******,
just to be sure...
  love the irish, but coming from
a ******* catholic background myself,
and not buying into the jesus
myth i'm starting to:
   i'll luv ya, as long as aye tease ya;
and so it was, a stalemate over
a pint of dublin's finest
                           charcoal amber lure.