Shakespeare come out of the bog, I'm a cross gartered fool desperate to be let in (c)
By Michael Casey
Today is Shakespeare's Birthday, 23rd April
So he is quiffing ale like Falstaff
So his bladder is fit to but
So needs must, he is in the bog
No not an Irish bog, like found in Kerry and those parts
The kind of bog where farts are found
A toilet in any other words
Can you hear hear the Earthy Sounds
A hail of rain, and tempest galore
Merrily I say to thee, Shakespeare is past
He has had his Measure for Measure, and more
Litre pint glasses he adores, he is all for Europe
If he can fit more in his glass
And now it is all coming out his ass
And I don't mean a donkey
Though he brays like one
Especially if he is sat upon
But is takes up all the bench with a buxom wench
Where are we all to sit
So we all say, move up a bit
Then he has to go for a sh**
He says he won't dally while he dumps
The wench's breast look like mumps
So we say, take your time
It's no crime, as Falstaff moves in
His double chins as large as the maiden's breast
Though she is far from Maiden
She's been had, and Elizabeth said it first
When she was a walk on part, as Falstaff farts
So Shakespeare is in the bog and we cheer merrily
As the Inn Keeper to his credit will but the ale bill
on Shakespeare's account, because he is a right count
We did get a penny worth of bread for Falstaff
As he never drinks on an empty stomach
As we leer and tarry with the maiden
Shakespeare has inspiration and takes out his quill
As sat on the toilet, he writes a new Thriller
The Tempest, and judging from the noises off
It is the perfect title
As washed up on a sea of ale, Shakespeare writes his Tale
We are glad for him and call for more Strumpets
which are a bit like bread, recently invented and called
Crumpets, so now you know, because I told you so
Annie was at the gate, so I missed a line
she is very refined and paints
But back to the yard of ale, for more of the tale
Shakespeare would not come out
No matter how loud we shout
He just used his quill and wrote on the wall
Many a verse, as we converse with Strumpets
And hoping for a bit of crumpet
Will was in there with his quill
Not know he would be paying the bar bill
But as the wind blew, he knew with his quill
He had swallowed a bitter pill
If he was writing on paper, then scenes would be missing
As the ale and hapworth of bread
Had entered via his head
Now was dropping like lead down the hole in the ground
With such a mighty echoing sound
Yes, Will was all piss and thunder
That's why he webbed words together like a song
And could do no wrong on any stage
And now filled with rage for the lack of a page
He was the writing was on the wall
But he was having a ball
And so were we with Strumpets
Best paid by Will on his tabulations behind the bar
Though the Strumpets behinds, in front and behind the bar
Were England's Glory be far
For God and King Harry Parts One and Two
Were writ when he'd had quite a few
Strumpets and Ale, they were both for sale
And Will Shakespeare knew how to take the measure of both
He was a playwrite of note after all
And he was always after, before, after and during
He had to dip his quill, that's why Will was Will
He was no sheep in a pen, he was frolicking at will
And Will did grow up in the wool trade and wrote all his own stuff
Though Ernest the Wise innkeeper always said it was bracing air
Like at Morcambe that made the lines fizzle
Not the damp air and drizzle outside
So come inside for we have crumpet to go with the ale
Best served by our very own strumpets
And what of Me?
I am Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham
And it is I who is left to beat my carpet
For the bastard Will left the cat in
And she sha** on my rug, so now I have to beat it
To clean the mess off
Happy Birthday William Shakespeare
And hurry up out of the bog
So I can use it, and maybe I can steal a few lines
Off the Wall, as I dance the night away
Farting Happy Birthday
