I saw the Bard, I met him as a ghost
He said he read my sonnets quite a bit
He even told me which he liked the most
And which he thought were monumental shit
I told him that a few of his were crap
And that a few had helped to get me laid
He said the iamb was a subtle trap
Developed just to trip the willing maid
And then he said he’d make a deal with me
He said to count the sonnets he’d composed
And if I wrote one sonnet more than he
Our names in fame would then become transposed
And so until I write one sonnet more
Than Bill, the sonnet is my favorite whore