Tis the day that one commences, a thread herein the style of Shakespeare. Alas the date that this be chosen, significance of none - just that of random. Those of whom, with which I toil, are far confused by this construct, None too lewd and none too shallow, and thus a lay down the challenge, Lewdness, debautchery welcome one and welcome all, be sure to include Shakespeare text but none too lewd!
What's he that wishes so? My fair coz SoundBarrier, If we are bound to write in deathless prose, As did the Bard of Avon, What concepts shall we espouse? What words have we that will perchance, Equal 'And can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France?' Now if we have another JB fan, Who to this feast of wit and humour, can Contribute. We may in train, As input number four ask, 'When shall we three meet again?' For tragedies more modern we may find, In JB discussion. Such stories come to mind, That tragedy, though bad indeed in prose, Is even worse when expressed by those, Not knowing how to be more terse, Believe that stories are best produced in verse.
Does the Bard once flesh and now in fortunate rot Above the strife of earth though 'neath its cover Twitch yet in sour disdain at this late impertinence? Can sense recover to those moulded ears to hear And startle at such jangled lines which now present As humour misbegotten at this meeting place Of coxcomb fliers unhanding stick to take up pen And thereby pose as sometime wits?
In truth do I look green askance and would apace Forego my wordy wings for alloyed arms And forgetting France in cockpit snug to harness Vulcan And a nonsense make of our far horizons Or clear with lightning's thrust and steepish climb This earth and leave the peasantry awonder All in awe and cloaked in subtle stain of kerosene Or fright with warthog's grunt the apish denizen Who dares to brave my strafing run and risk his all
That I were too soon born requires no brain in computation Methought it were Colossus bestrode this narrow earth But tottered he a paltry step while lads unmedalled leap To make a very ant of Caesar and snails of all his legions In a brave new world where Avon Dart and Trent No longer course their pretty ways about the land But as Leviathans unleashed are fit to roar across the heavens