Of all the rumors, all heated debate
in reference to his authored state;
his works, his loves, the sordid strife
that make up anecdotes about his life…
No one can know, the true tale expired.
Yet how can you not help admire
that person’s verve to catalyst such storms
four hundred years past the popular norm?
Now dancing in go-go boots angelic
I’m sure he roots our lives pathetic.
I’m sure he chuckles in haloed glee
At all such rampant bardolatry.
In reverent esteem we hold him–
(he who may or may not have penned them,)
but don’t we cherish more juicy reports…
the tales, the gossip, the jealous retorts?
And stuck in my brain, my favorite piece
(seems engraved wherein by telekinesis),
“Not without mustard”… a tale apropos.
- the weirdgirl