Wordsmith and Craven

Oh to scribe as William doth,
With quill and word of wit,
Instead I sit at keyboard harsh,
And write like such wan twit.

Young Shakespeare, he knew language,
Such flair for stabbing puns,
As Pierre I am indeed bereft,
Glumly, I am Nunns

Oh sadness bested, woe bequested,
Oh shamed poor author marred,
Whither yon wordsmith I doth wither,
In shadow of great Bard.

Indeed! Do laugh at such words base,
Their youth and rawness rude,
For whilst Bill maketh soft hearts melt,
My strain to woo rings crude.

So on I toil in his great wake,
To battle verse and time,
Whilst his gilt words shew cadence true,
Mine doth rarely rhyme.

Toe-to-toe they cannot fight,
Their volumes converse deemed,
When seemed against this daunting foe,
My verses are but creamed.

And so it seems I may never,
Hold candle to prose so bright,
Old William’s words forever shine,
Mine beg for mere daylight



Copyright Pierre Nunns