So you want to be immortal, huh?
What? In one of my poems?
Jeez. I've just written you a poem
and now you want another.
Brother. You're insatiable.
I mean, I bet you Shakespeare's missus
didn't say, hey Will, how's about a sonnet
just to sock it to this mortal coil
before we shuffle off, recoiling.
And then, just because she hath her way,
he grabs his quill and says, yair, OK,
now what are the parameters here?
Do ya want some iambic pentameter?
I mean, look. Fair **** of the saveloy,
no, seriously, why do you think us poets
slave away in our word factories,
hammering out rhythms,
breathing sparks into everything,
giving a few bangs on the side
and trying to straighten it all out?
Eh? Words almost fail me!
It's because we're trying
to become immortal ourselves!
That's why. And even if I were
to borrow and to borrow
from the old bard it'd be just like
the plague arisen again with
that Bacon business.
I'd do small good, see? Forever.
So listen. Even if I compare thee with
a summer's day and it fair ****** down with rain,
I'm still the one who has to hack the trail.
Right. So let’s cut a deal here, immediately.
If I, me, this poet can first find immortality,
no worries. You're welcome to the recipe.
