He rode across the prairie
on the wings of slaves
cementing bishops with his wiley drivel
His books were light and airey
on rice and balderdash stockings
completing sentences on a swivel
Aye, Nay, Not a Bloody Chance
rules the vicar, with lovely elbows
I've killed eleven partridges
and yet have time for naught
but tennis, manicures and chocolate pudding
Shakespeare rides in first
on a Harley of red and gold
selling programs to the more guillable patrons
they're written in Latin, of course
and such is the price of popcorn in this century
Mighty Sir Walter Scott
armed with prose that bores
takes chances that the crowd and foe can stay awake
hurls the ball towards North hoping miracles will never cease
finds a receiver in the crease
who Shakespeare mows into Medieval Times
his broker on the phone, he can't be bothered
with cleaning up the drippings of a fool
and now it's Ivanhoe, and faith be damned
the eyelids of the Kings and Queens are melting
one by one they fall, and stop the pelting
of late hour beer and soda on the poor
as Shakespeare sings light Opera from the moor
content to gnaw on ferrets, Shakespeare's page
attacks the Bard with words, in sullen rage
a laugh, a sigh, a malicious prick
upon the author, soon laughing himself sick
and Walter Scott's words fall upon the ground
his voice becomes a narrow, bleating sound
and Shakespear plays his final card
arousing all with sonnets from the Bard
final score:
Shakespeare 10
Sir Walter Scott 8
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