Don’t be affear’d;
my Bard is worse than my bite;
from first night to twelfth,
and beyond
a pond of flesh?
Pray, tarry not-
“Who writes this rot?”
I cans’t not tell
If all is well
that endeth such –
It is all too much a do.
Let loose the dogs
of Waterloo,
and if you
are waiting,
nothing will come.
Shakespeare’s Birthday
Did you send him a card?
Who?
The Bard.
Why?
It’s his birthday.
Wow! I didn’t know – how old is he?
He was born five hundred and fifty-four years ago.
Which makes him…?
If alive, he would be five hundred and fifty-four years old.
That’s a lot of candles!
It surely would be. But, he died in sixteen sixteen.
That’s sad.
On his birthday.
That’s very sad. (there is a short pause) Before or after the cake?
I think it was during.
Death by Chocolate?
Quite possibly.
Sad, and yet, not totally.
 | The Febrile Imaginin… on Pietry |
 | InfiniteZip on Arrivederci and Benvenuto |
| InfiniteZip on Pietry |
| The Febrile Imaginin… on Arrivederci and Benvenuto |
| The Febrile Imaginin… on Pietry |
