A letter from William Shakespeare to Sam I Am…

Forsooth he says the truth. Sam I am.

Pouring My Art Out

Dear Sirrah,

Still no appetite for thy heinous concoction doth my tongue construe to desire.

Neither hither nor yon would’st such tinted and perhaps tainted fare present itself less foully to my palate.

I dislike the notion of consuming such victuals even within mine own dwelling, whereas being attended by a rodent during the course of such a repast seems ill-bethought.

Likewise did the fox seem poorly put upon when I did but seek to inquire if he would care to join me in a supper of such surpassingly unusual colour. And as for my retiring to the confinement of a box of suitable size to permit, whilst I did find the quietude fortuitous to composing verse, methinks it did but little to render my dislike of the plate placed before me into a true liking.

Forsooth, I am far beyond the age where dining on a tree branch seems practicable.

I knoweth not of this ‘train’…

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