On The Desecration of Shakespeare

What puny, vapid minds have ye,
Who take down Shakespeare’s name.
What evil, dull, stupidity
Engulphs your shades with shame.
You cannot write one simple line
Of mediocre verse,
So malice acts you do assign
To show your sick self-curse.
Shakespeare was great, and that you hate,
Who’ll never rise to poor;
He will go on when you’re long gone,
And this you hate e’en more.
His words, his craft, of will-tamed fire,
His voice, melodious, true,
Still wings aloft, up high and higher,
O’er man-less depths of you.
Dark mud clings to your lips and hands,
Bright stars surround his fame;
You crawl as beasts through swampish lands,
‘Neathe mount of Shakespeare’s name!

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