Ah, gentlemen, you were a stellar quartet
of writers with copious talents, and yet
if you keep insisting, five centuries later,
that one of you had to be Falstaff’s creator
as well as Cordelia’s, and also Othello’s,
you’re quite a collection of devious fellows.

My Lord Francis Bacon, let’s open with you:
a scholar you were, and a scientist too;
you wrote of enlightenment, back in the day—
but nary a poem, and never a play.
It’s likely that we would be sadly mistaken
to look for a Hamlet along with our Bacon.

Sir Christopher Marlowe (known also as “Kit”),
you wrote some remarkable plays, we admit.
But why would you bother to fake your own death
so critics could claim that you’d written Macbeth
long after you died—like a playwright from hell?
And a hundred and fifty-four sonnets, as well?

And Sir William Stanley, you’re trying too hard;
You’re not the same William we know as the bard.
We know your initials are W.S.,
and you were a scoundrel—but nevertheless,
do not be surprised when we give you the bird
instead of the credit for Richard the Third.

So Edward de Vere, you’re the final contender
and many insist you should never surrender,
since you were the one wearing velvet and laces
who romped in Verona and similar places.		
You looked like a poet, you dressed fit to kill,
but no other threads ever linked you to Will.

Lord Bacon, Lord Stanley, Sir Marlowe, de Vere,
just what do you think you’re accomplishing here?
Your conspiracy theories belong on the shelf,
but not on the one meant for Shakespeare himself.
Remember, he said, “To thine own self be true,”
which goes for us all—but especially you.