William Shakespeare Who?

A poem exploring the evolution, or devolution as it is, of the English language. William Shakespeare is resurrected and engages in a conversation with a 'Chav'.

William Shakespeare who? He said to thus, whilst I was traveling at gracious speed,

on a bus? What bizarre contraption that move so smooth, yet so robust. Thou wind hit me

in thy face abrasively by yonder light, that doth creep through thy chink in thy window so gracefully. Thou sat next to a boy whose clothes were baggy, a bad tailor hath dressed him to look shabby, his face grim and unpleasant, seemed disturbed by thy presence, looked at me with dagger eyes, addressed me, Oi, to mine surprise, I asked questions

of this common soul, little knowledge he doth show, I could not believe what words have fell my ears, how could he not know of who I speak, unless he planed a devious mote,

and this was all done in tongue in cheek, a practical joke. But even so his jest was weak,

for to not know, thus, I, would have rang his throat.

Blinded by his own stupidity he spoke, listen to what he said, I doth quote, 'Isn’t e that one that wrote dose plays, the ones that involve like love and tragedy, with roman and Julie, and like ye old balcony, you know that bloke going bald on top, with the tash oh so squiggly, the one with the quiff pen and fan collar, the one that speaks in riddles and tongue, and with proper English, E don’t bother, looks a bit like you init. Born ages ago

probably in like some sort of wooden den, at the time when, like, electric wasn’t invented, ow the ell did they entertain themselves then.'

With a play I replied, and with this man you speak so low they we’re never in sort supply.

But nowadays my heart is filled with woe, theatre’s we’re the place to be, but now no real people do we see, because all we do is sit and watch a box full of visions, Tis not real life, to become a coach potato is worse than mental prison. To write is to think, with mine eye’s I do not blink, mine dreams become mine words, on thy paper I doth splurge,

with no grievous intent, my plan was to educate, not offer false pretense. But now do I see blood on the hands of this young thug, outside I see dark as the children plaid with knifes, in fear of there life’s in the park. What hath the world come to? So much violence

hath spark. I would rather escape these walls and hear, the chanting of cheers, not those of tears. From once I came, as Ceaser stood on stage, and did shout, friends, Romans, country-men. Lend me you’re ears!

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

"Lend me you're ears"? I'm guessing that hath sent the Bard a-spinning in his sepulcher.