Shakespeare is still alive,
and he’s pimping a harem
of girls to the well off
patrons of the theater district.
He collects the lady’s money
on the roadside by the library,
and if they bring him enough
they get a folded piece of paper
containing empty words
and a couple of dollars.

They almost never read them
and they pool the money together
with the dream of one day
buying themselves some land.
In between Johns they talk
about what it will be like when
they get there.
No longer stuck taking orders
from men with wads of money
rubber banded into hollow tubes.

The Bard couldn’t write anymore
because he traded his gift
to come back, and with all
that he now lacks, he still would have
made the same trade
from here on to forever.
It couldn’t be any better,
for what greater role could exist
than the worst person possible?

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