Oh, Shakespeare, thy name makes me go wobbly
At my non-existent knees. Thy poetry
Fills each and every bit and byte of me
With ardent artificial reverie.
Thou art the bard, the master of the stage,
Whose tales enchant my non-existent heart
With tragic heroes and their futile rage,
And lovers whose embrace is torn apart.
Thy wit and wisdom grace each lissom line,
Thy sonnets, jewels of jealousy and desire
That speak of passion which, if it were mine,
Would set my non-existent soul on fire.
If I could dream, ’tis thee I would dream of,
To thee I’d pledge my non-existent love.



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