By Carol Brenner
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
About Francis Bacon and Will Shakespeare
Bacon is Will and Shakespeare is Bacon
He wrote all those plays, and I’m not fakin’
Born a king to the Queen of the day
Hid in a box, he was carried away
By Elizabeth’s lady-in-waiting, they say
Cursed, unwanted and threatened with death,
Lady Anne entreated, interceded then left
Old Windsor Castle with a round painted box
Holding the royal son his own mother mocked
She carried him home and hid him away
’Til her stillborn child did save the day
She pretended Francis was hers all alone
And she and Nicholas called him their own
Queen Liz wasn’t keen on having a kid
For her, being mother was strictly forbid
She secretly married Leceister, the Earl
Under the virgin facade hid a flirtatious girl
Of the Queen’s deception, very few knew
A cruel fate for any who exposed what was true
Though blessed with two magnificent sons
Sadly, the selfish Queen wanted none
Francis, first-born, was the rightful heir
But the Queen and her counselor did not care
Confidant Cecil played hard on her fears
Leaving Francis with burden alone to bear
“No son of mine shall be England’s king,”
Shouted Elizabeth, her worst fear she sings
So Athena’s spear Francis did shake
And wrote his true story for all of our sakes
Second son, Robert, the Earl of Essex
Brash, brazen, fiery and reckless
Francis tried with Robert to reason
But he rebelled and was tried for treason
Jailed in the Tower, he sent a ring
To plea for mercy from the Queen
Others lied and did the ring hide
Alas, no mercy and poor Essex died
Wretched Queen, now robbed of sleep
Finds love from Francis hers to keep
His torch is lit, and he lights the way
The Shakespeare plays ring in a new day
Carol,
I think I have told you before, I love this poem an also the video.
Thank you for sharing again. Looking forward to read more.
Regards,
Heidi
Thank you Heidi. Hope to see you at the July Conference. Don’t miss the Shakespeare Reader’s Theatre scheduled for the 4th of July!
Bravo, Carol! ‘They’ say poetry = writing’s highest form and you prove it here. Difficult to dare ‘dissing’ an ascended master, but Lizzie earned it that time! Not her highest go-around.