Shakespeare lies sleeping in his
bed he paid with verses.
Protected from grave diggers
by simple stones burned with curses.
This Stafford lad, a glove makers son
has made his mad men.
His blood covered kings and cackling witches
never to see the sun again.
Now he sleeps, close to the altar
beneath the bust of his face.
Sleeping till England has need of
plays to excite every sex and race.