Creaking chair and worn wooden desk,

Papers strewn across its hidden curves,

A collared man sits at it, head in his ink stained hands,

Weary from his days story spinning,

They wanted more, so they got more,

But at what expense?

His head hurt, his hands ached,

And he was running out of words

Thousands of words in the English language,

Yet he could not find a single one that was right,

27 successes and still more to go,

Ink running dry, and parchment pile drenched in nonsense,

He looks up, at his paper and his pen,

Beginning once more

Those are the struggles of a writers game,

No more words would fit into that play,

So he made his own,

Now they are the ones that we use today,

Are you pious or gloomy?

Have you had a monumental moment?

Or ever been bedazzled?

Our majestic Shakespeare has had his rants,

Of what ever more than his own creations