Sentence The Threehundredandninetieth 

Some say the Earl of Oxford wrote,

The plays of Shakespeare, but I wot,

The answer's different, I'm assumin'

The author of them was, a Woman;

My reason's easy, so's my tack:

Ophelia and Lady Mac,

Are not the work of Man in tone,

Not penned in his testosterone,

Their words do not come from a Mister,

For surely they're writ by a Sister;

So who could write such shades of grey?

My money's on Ann Hathaway;

The sonnets, surely, give a clue,

From accents, colour, shade and hue -

Licit hillmen, hubris larruping,

Oft-times gather wher'ere the larks sing,

And speak of things best left unsaid

Before they take themselves to bed;

The one gift attached with a comma to the rest,

Is his, Will's, stipulation, that it shall be 'Second Best'!