The Writer by Matthew Wilson

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.

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