If Shakespeare were to rise
From the cover of the brick-like tome
Bought in the year I was born
If Shakespeare’s head like a dome
Detached from the sky of the page
A photocopy turned three-dimensional
Though yellow and dulled due to age

Imagine Shakespeare’s paper legs
Walking about my apartment
Sitting where the cat hair piled up
Imagine cat hairs in droves
On Shakespeare’s dark woollen clothes
Which surely must be washed by hand
Though no label this fact will disclose

Wouldn’t he be surprised to find
That so many centuries later
We are all still fleeing the plague
Though as many have noticed by now
We don’t all write plays in our downtime
At best, some humorous remark
To make the rounds on the web

Of this he would surely know nothing
And would likely be shocked by the view
Of a woman of such dubious virtue
Who’d be seen wearing pants like a man
And letting her belly go loose
No corset nor hint of excuse
For the lack of a gown or a gem

All the same, I’d invite him for tea
Place his cup quite intentionally
By the spot where his book proudly lies
And lest my company bore
Slyly start dropping verse after verse
Amid our amiable discourse
To be or not to be, shall I compare thee
Being two he could not quite ignore

And I’d do my best to avoid
The more sensitive points of his life
Being born to illiterate parents
Or worse, the spiteful suggestion
The he, himself, could not read
And no work by one William Shakespeare
Could be penned by the man of such name

Aye, the proof that since Man is Man
Achievement has warred with acclaim