I am the ink in Shakespeare’s pen,
he may never live again.
And yet, he lives upon the page
and, most of all, when on the stage.
For ink is blood and blood is ink,
in words which make you feel and think.
And, in all this, he brings to life,
the soul in turmoil, immortal strife.
That all wars should end in peace,
while on life we have a lease.
He tells us what it means to be
for you and I, eternal me.
He did it all, Sam Goldwyn said,
(another man who’s also dead)
with a feather, not a frown,
well, you could have knocked me down.
For words are down inside my mouth
which brings together North and South.
Down is soft inside a quilt,
Oh! Live life up to the hilt.
To be, he said, or not to be,
to live, to breathe, to kiss, feel free.