Asking for an imaginary friend upon the anniversary of Shakespeare’s alleged birthday.

Is there – my friend would like to know –

any reason


most poetry

is so rubbish?

My friend would like to be excused

from having one’s ears sorely abused

by being forced to listen to acrid rhymes.

Sacred, are the times

when the rest is silence –

as the Bard wroted.

Which Bard, it should be noted,

was also a poet –

my friend says that they endured one of his sonnets,

but wasn’t sure how far to throw it.

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