Sonnet Upon Finding Shakespeare on the Bargain Table

How doth, perchance, through cruel twist of fate,
Our master poet, playwright, bard of Avon
Find his works at discount bargain rates
On sale at yonder drugstore known as Save-on?

“Wherefore are thou discount?” I did query,
This clever sage who penned immortal lines,
Must we now him, with unpraised Caesar bury?
His tales, alas ignored in digital times?

Then suffer, Will, thy noble slings and arrows,
That in a sea of troubles come to thee.
Thy too, too solid words seem trite and narrowed
By cliches like “To be or not to be.”

And all these words that once did come alive
I now buy for just six ninety-five.


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