by Anton Wills-Eve

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/imitationflattery/”>Imitation/Flattery</a&gt;


                                    IF WILL SHAKESPEARE HAD BEEN A BLOGGER

it is rumoured that the following sonnet appeared on page eight of the Stratford Daily Bugle on the 4th of October, 1597. It was signed ‘anon’ and filled ‘poets corner’ for that day. But the author was not so averse to public acclaim that he did not mind prefixing the work with the words, “This is my 73rd go at writing these bloody things, will I never get one right?”


T’is that time again when I am wracked by ‘flu and cold

And yellow drops, hourly, from my red nose do hang

Next which my ‘kerchiefs have countered sneezes bold’,

Bare ruined nostrils next which no sweet notes ever sang.

In me thou see’st, therefore, at the closing of each day,

Like dim, grey twilight as the sun sinks in the west:

The sniffling posture of a poet, prisoner of his unwrit lay,

Left on life’s shelf, his coughing never allowing him to rest.

In me, all thou can see, are the carnal ashes of my years.

There, where my gorgeous youth often did lovingly lie,

Is now my death-bed as my passion is reduced to tears

For Anne mistook herself as nourisher of my evening sigh.

      This I know full well, who does himself despise. Oh shit,

      To be loved by she on whom I ‘oft, so shamelessly, did spit!


Anton Wills-Eve