I am not the girl you make me out to be,
I am comparable to Hamlet’s future bride
Or so you say.
Perhaps I was once so tragic,
though purely in a fashion of the time,
Through some words, or another.
I fear though, no artist would take my impression
Create it into a fine piece to have cult following
That lasts even today.
No stunner should risk her life,
In a bathtub for a poets word,
Or fine hand of Millais.
My sanity is quite intact,
Though Shakespeare’s women rarely were,
Through love or flight of fancy.
And though you claim to know him intimately,
Well versed enough to claim a career
Of stolen ideas and images.
Could you imagine if he wrote of you?
I fear words would fail even him.
Your manner shocks even us.
I am no more your lady of the river than you claim to be,
Fictionalised attempts to cover failure,
To claim there’s something more.
Though others grasp this title, like a favour
From their daring knight. I simply pass by,
Sailing back the way I came.