“To be or not to be,
that is the question
as we all seem to like it.
Or to be a baffled by being,
could veritily be felt
on the higher battlements,
with the wind fled up the kilt
like a tree fleeing Scot.
But is that the Scottish play?
No, tis not, aye maybe tis,
I swear I saw Banquo’s ghost,
at Richard The Third’s tent flap;
Twas Much Ado About Nothing,
just a provocation,
so get thee Branagh outside
and we’ll sort this out
behind the old nunnery.
Yet, here’s the rub,
there is but a Winter’s Tale
of death, and never is worth
a Twelfth Night clash of tipped foils
which are but a fragment
of Romeo’s poisoned imagination.
Alas poor Yorrick, all will be,
as endings surely promise,
all’s well that blends well.
A bid for actors’ silence,
some poor play on words
and a problem for receding playwrights.”
