There are some folks

There are some folks

Who like to believe

Shakespeare was a lie

Such a writer

Can’t be from the sticks

A middle-class

Country boy

From a church school

Without a classical education

A humble beginning

With no humble beginnings

To his work

He just didn’t exist

Well I don’t know

I wasn’t there

But I like to think of an ordinary guy

Just being a genius

Einstein with a pen.

That doesn’t mean

I see myself as one

That would mean I would believe

All the women with the pretty names

Who ask me to spend money

On publishing

When I have

Been there before

Sold my soul

And received payment

For it,

Buttons though it was,

At least it was brass.

I have lost the need to chase

Tails and notoriety

Death has a way of hollowing

Things out

Leaving the skin and bones

Behind to commune

Among themselves.

I feel bleached

From the inside, out

It is chastening.

I blame Mark Twain

Who was a bit up himself

In a literary sense

If you ask me

Good writer though he was,

An American idol,

Before the wheels fell off,

Perhaps he too was a cypher.

Intellectual snobbery

An import tariff

Wrapped in homespun

Philosophy.

I couldn’t give a rat’s arse

For opinion

Public or otherwise

Of course, that’s a lie

As it is for most people.

I value my peers

But then again,

There are moments

When the planets align

And the moon slips

Out of its disguise

To reveal its dark side,

That I can just about

See my way clear through

The Hubble and bubble

To be truthful about

The scope of

My intentions.