The bard named William Shakespeare, though we sometimes see him as a seer,
In this regard aped Chris, his pard, and other 'lizabethan peers;
They backed the wrong verse-horse, which proved a musical calamiter:
Their tragi-comic scripts were scribed in iambic pentameter.

To be or not to be, that is the question; whether mentally
'Tis nobler in the mind to suffer arrows incidentally
And slings of fate outrageous; or take arms against a sea of woes,
And with a drubbing end those troubling shocks we devoutly oppose.

To die or sleep might help us keep those achy-breaky heart at bay;
To sleep, perchance to dream; ay, there's the rubbish plain in what I say:
In sleep of death, what dreams, when we have shuffled off this mortal noose
Must give us pause to contemplate the square of the hypotenuse.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of temporal adversity.
Oppressor's wrong, the pangs of despised love, and such perversity?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and we sit idle-ly,
For who can find a bodkin, to employ it suicidally?

That undiscover'd country, singing Shakespeare, posed for centuries,
Has puzzled wills, but why wait 'til we're long-in-tooth or dentury?
I wrote this rhyming flyer and I now can boast or post or blog,
My sing-along soliloquy's the Modern Hamlet Monologue.

(Chorus):
He now can boast or post or blog; this plugged up conduit he's unclogged,
His Sing-Along Soliloquy's the Modern Hamlet Monologue.