Welcome to Billy’s Bloggerel, a web-log of doggerel…
Where do Ideas come from?
Part Five: Love
O Billy? Billy? Wherefore are thou hidden?
The Queen awaits your players and your play.
This protesting protestant is our head
And may remove ours if it pleases her.
I am too busy for Queens of England,
For I have met the Empress of my heart.
If you deem that a metaphor of merit
We are all doomed to smile on Royal spikes.
But I am composing sonnets of sweet love
For you see, my heart, it flies like a…
Please do not say ‘dove’. I could not bear ‘dove’.
For my heart flies like a… white pigeon?
Enough! The Queen demands a play and a private
Audience with her playwright and his pig.
She would know from whence your ideas spring.
From whence do ideas spring? O who cares!
Nay! Hush awhile. And listen to my sonnet!
When all needs are nudged out for sweet Anne.
Wintry howls are our story-told affairs,
When rivalled to true troth-plights piped by Pan.
Why should I delve for tales like a mole that trawls,
Clawing for seeds in filthy thick clay?
Wherefore should I please strangers in stalls
Whose love for me ends with th’end of my play?
No. There’s no room in my inn for more guests.
For love fills me like a loaf tin of baked bread,
And o’erspills her like corseted breasts.
No corner is empty in us newlywed.
As true for this man, who hath Hathaway.
Tis a pretty sonnet. Worth a tear.
Perhaps more if the Queen hears not some verse.
I am distracted. And content to be.
Or not to be if she is unfurnished
With a tale that reddens her lead white face.
All our necks are yours. All our fates are married.
If you displease her she may make your Anne
Shaxpere into Hamlet’s Ophelia.
O! That quickens the heart as much as love!
From whence do ideas spring? O from whence?
Now I see it! Ideas spring from love.
Our friendship is like Falstaff’s waistband. Stretched.
I will tell it in a sonnet.
We are like old ice crusting the cold peak
Of a lonely hill. Till love like sun flares
Thawing our burbling tongues, letting us speak.
For whom would we write a single letter
Or paint a single stroke, or sing an ode
If not for those whose embrace unfetters
And makes us their prince where once was a toad.
When my love accepted a bent sixpence,
When she took a pair of gloves and a ring,
Then did her love let me trust my true sense,
Then did the sun melt the source to the spring.
Remember all my verse was by love grown.
It is well said. Come, tell it to the Queen.
If we tarry longer then I shall cut
Both our heads off to save her the trouble.