Though his rhyme timePassed ‘fore plastic love prime,
They still sav(i)or his prose
The way red paints a rose.
Their parents frown faunUpon scissor runnings,
Drive-by gunnings, &
All things bunga-bunga.
House security admits The Bard,All access pass through Abelard.
No one jests, for his bedrests-
Furrowed & shaken glacier fests.
The plight & pain,The flight & fain-
Of the loves not wisely but
Too well-scarred offspring.
“Ohh-La-La” the French Girls sigh,When his magic van rumbles down
Northumberland anon & doles out
All things fair & foul- Bill Pills.
Bereft of a thrill in the fast lane?Remember, re mem thee Bard’s Tale,
Summer Ale, New Rochelle,
Secrets you neither tell or reve(a)l.
Cloaked in red velvet,A caped/encased Ophelia,
Trapped under water, maybe ice,
Singing “sur le pont d’avingnon…”
Once, twice, thrice~