How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?
You say that you’re hiring a digger
To lift up my crossbones and skull –
Are the fish that you fry never bigger?
Isn’t grave-robbing awfully dull?
You won’t find my Lear. My brain’s done a bunk –
Though I hear that you’re asking, did Shakespeare smoke skunk?
I can’t see the sense in exhuming
What’s left of me after my death –
Besides, you may find that I’m fuming
About Roman Polanski’s Macbeth –
Not to mention the cut-splits of bloody Baz Luhrmann.
Don’t I ever get read now? Thought not. End of sermon.
Imagine the heritage income
A tour of my bone-bits would make –
If you think that that makes it fair dinkum,
Then you’ve made a colossal mistake.
I don’t like the fans. I’m an audience-phobe.
And no, I never performed in The Globe.
How can I stop you from stealing?
I can give you my second-best curse.
I am long in the tooth, but I’m feeling
That I’ve taken a turn for the worse.
Yes why don’t you use your new laser-sharp scanner?
Just don’t stage a meeting with Mirren and Branagh.
Richard the Third may well love it,
After years of my blackening his name.
For as for me, prof, I say ‘Shove it’,
Though I see that you’re here all the same.
Crack! Here you come, with my souls to awaken –
Why two of me? Well, this is Marlowe. That’s Bacon.
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