With a quill for a sword, a parchment for a steed,
Bill galloped through words at breakneck speed.
He dreamed of fair maidens, of kings, and of fools,
While trying to follow Elizabethan tax rules.
In Verona and Venice, he scribed of great tales,
All the while chasing his messenger for mails.
Letters of tax, they came in a swarm,
"Oh, blast these rules!" he howled in a storm.
Crying havoc, he let slip the dogs of war,
Spilling ink on his accounts, oh what a chore!
He penned of tempests, of love's labour’s lost,
While grappling with all his Tudor tax costs.
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