Tag Archives: @Shakespeare

Sad Cypress?

Song: “Come away, come away, death” 


(from Twelfth Night)

Come away, come away, death,

    And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away, breath;

    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

             O, prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

         Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

    On my black coffin let there be strown.

Not a friend, not a friend greet

    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

             Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

             To weep there!



I am nothing if not punctilious –

therefore, I am nothing.

and ‘nothing will come from nothing.’

As King Lear said.

Which William Shakespeare wrote.

That I wrote,

and you have just read.

The Ghost at the Banquet (I am)

I am the ghost

at the banquet.


No, that was another ghost

at another banquet –

I am not him,

and he is not me.

Do you see?

He was there due to his death

at the hands of MacBeth.

I was not

killed by an ambitious Scot;

but, by a jealous yak

from ancient Tibet.

Why I should be at this particular banquet

Is a mystery yet.

The Great British Bake Off 1598.

Paulus Holyword: Taketh these ingredients

and maketh of them a cake;

for I would eateth of such a thing

And when I say ‘cake’

I mean ‘cake’

no alternatives shall be acceptable;

If thou breakest the spirit

of my challenge

I shall be most displeaseth –

in fact, I shall have thy guts and thy garters for breakfast.

Hail Mary!

The Bear and The Bard (again).

The bear in the The Bear Inn Public House

supped his beer;

seemingly, without a care.

The Bard watched the bear

and to a Summer’s day

did he compare the bear;

before deciding that the bear

was beyond compare;

or, at the least,

beyond comparing to a day in Summer;

sparing us all a sonnet

that had the imprint of a bear’s

paws writ large upon it.


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.


Oh, Cardenio,

where did you go, my friend

if you ever existed at all.

How I would love to spend

time with you,

pouring over your words and

learning from all the things you have to say.