Shakespeare inadvertently struck his head on his bookshelf One day Consumed in his profound thoughts, And huge anger at his neighbour's wife Who had plucked flowers from his garden That he had saved for Ophelia, His secret girlfriend, His wife hardly had the wind of, And conjured Hamlet In his Elsinore castle Taking cudgels In schizophrenia Against the King, and his mom, Gertrude, in the image of Ann Hathaway. In the meantime, the ghost of his dad was getting restless To launch the drama in the dead of a Denmark night That would take the theatre by storm And keep the world enthralled Packed in its four thousand lines of impossible delight and surprises At all turns, Sudden, hairpin, sharp, et al Which even Shakespeare didn't know, He being a realised soul Plowing the field of literature With his reed dipped in verse, In a trance With consummate certainty, Not much before becoming A Bard Of the universe, While many more plots On tattering folios He spun With alarming alacrity For all, Friends or foes! Who says you are dead, Bard?