They tell me Shakespeare was a genius
and I'm sure they must be right,
but I don't want to read Shakespeare,
not now, or on any day or night.
Neither do my mother, father
children, neighbors, friends, wife,
co-workers, casual acquaintances,
or anyone else I've met in my life,
except for my English teachers,
like the starry-eyed Mr. Harrington.
He was unusual. Literature
was a battle he wanted to win.
If I could see Mr. Harrington now,
if I could conjure up his ghost,
I'd ask him a few questions,
but here's what I want to ask most:
How pretty is a planet made of diamonds
we'll never get close to seeing?
How pristine was the Garden of Eden
when Adam and Eve went walking?
"Very pretty, and very pristine,"
I'm sure his answer would be.
Shakespeare. A diamond planet. Eden.
These are foreign things to me.
I can't understand them. Yes, it may be
that foreign things approach divinity,
but I'd rather hear somebody fiddle,
or watch American Idol on TV.