That beastly, bawdy bard of wily wit
Did flit and flutter midst a storm of words.
Such tapestries of telling tales he knit
And pithy poems, pleasing herds of nerds!
In madness and in subtle genius hot,
His quill did quiver not, but wrote in rage,
A raunchy rage with mad creation fraught,
A savvy, saucy sage on every page!
Outgrow my nit of wit he helped me much,
Though more than little bit of nit remains.
He graced my tiny mind with timely touch,
Though time blots not all stains from my poor brains!
Oh, Mr. Shakespeare—may I call you Will?—
I thank you that your work inspires still.