Bill the Bard

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 bound by the weight of Tudor 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 ledger, “oh what a chore!”

He penned of tempests, of love’s labour’s lost,

While tallying the Queen’s most taxing costs.

 

He bartered in sonnets to settle his dues,

And mused if the Crown might accept tragic news.

“If all the world’s players must pay for their part,

Then tax me,” said Bill, “but not matters of heart!”