I am a jester. Good King Henry’s
the source of my sauce, the role for my royalties.
I, Will, bring light and warmth from my season –
to all and sundry something of Somers:
be you clouded or sodden, whatever the weather –
whether your son is shining or whether
the reigning gives you rheum and chill.
As a rule, Will will bring good folk good Will.
You may rely upon my puns,
rocky rhymes and feeble reason,
rhythms that will trip you up –
my queries, quips and quiddities,
juggles, jests and jolly jokes –
they all live on, although
I lied and died in 1560. Still laughing
Will survives, which is jester’s
well – you yet have need of Will.
Without a Will, we have no future.
(Make your own Will, incidentally)
Kings and Queens have come and gone,
I’ll continue – my trusty monkey
chattering on, chasing fleas −
the work of monarchs, if you please,
for I suggest life’s just a jest