Happy Birthday, Mr. Shakespeare, 2009

The 8th grade English teacher asked if I would write a little something for the bard's birthday.

In the sleepy Hamlet of Stratford-on-Avon
under a brilliant, gold corona
Is discussed a history of a prolific author
by Two Gentlemen of Verona
They had travelled wide and far,
and the Twelfth Night found the two
In the town where Mary Shakespeare birthed
and little William Shakespeare grew.
Due to a tragic Comedy of Errors
much about his life is speculation,
Measure for Measure, April 23rd is as good
as any for his birthday celebration.
These men discovered Will’s father,
John, was an important man in town
But Will’s education, formal or otherwise,
they just couldn’t seem to pin down.
They found that he matured and married,
an older woman As You Like It
The four day journey from Stratford to London,
he most likely had to hike it
Some guess his wife was weary of Will’s extended leaves,
though she never bossed
Perhaps she feared that badgering the bard
might end in Love’s Labors Lost
There was no Taming of the Shrew,
one gentleman did bet
Anne Hathaway, to this very day,
is thought of as Will’s Juliet.
Let’s leave behind this contrived conceit
of two men on some literary quest
And discuss the merits of Shakespeare’s career
and why he’s considered the best.
He is credited with thirty-seven plays
and (hold on to your bonnets)
He found the time to measure and rhyme
one hundred fifty-four sonnets.
(for those of you keeping score,
that’s 2156 lines of iambic pentameter –
but wait, there’s more)
Much Ado About Nothing came of the rumors
that Will may have been a pen name
The Tempest passed; it was proved at last
that Will existed and earned his acclaim
As the greatest writer of his or any time –
a most prolific fellow
The genius pen behind Macbeth,
King Lear, Puck, and Othello,
The man who brought us the histories of
King Henry IV, V, and VIII for starts
And King John and Richard II and III
and Henry VI – in three parts.
History shows proof that he wrote –
let’s not these waters muddy
He lived, he died, but his work’s survived
as something worthy of study
As our Winter’s Tale comes to end
and Spring brings its hopeful swell
We make merry his birth and life –
All’s Well That Ends Well.
And if he were here, in this room,
if he were still alive
We’d help him celebrate birthday number
four hundred forty-five
We’d toast him with a piece of cake;
we’d toast him with ice cream
As sweet as any sonnet
and as delicious and delightful
as any Midsummer Night’s Dream.

© Jeff Wilson, 2009