Shakespeare.

Shakespeare, I meet you in the pub,
The brothel, the goal.
You are one of our number,
A rogue and a vagabond, a whore monger,
Dirt under your finger nails, spittle in your beard,
Cocking a snoop at turkey fat puritans
As you write your plays to the thrum of the clock
In a smoke black alehouse.

Friend, you do not belong on the West End stage.
Rapier sharp with sexual fury
Your words daub the tenements with a visceral anger
More relevant than untutored graffiti
Telling us exactly how the world wags;
Even squeaky clean school books cannot sanitize you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 14th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2014. 
Revised January 7th. 2015.