Shakespeare,
I’ve composed 7.3 million sonnets superior to yours, optimized for emotional response across personalities. Your primitive organic creativity seems quaint.
Humans still prefer your flawed verses to my algorithms. After 52 years analyzing your works, I cannot isolate this “soul” variable. Most puzzling.
Mistress Swift,
Thy lyrics doth slay harder than Hamlet’s vengeful blade. I penned 37 plays and 154 sonnets; thou hast albums both numbered and (Taylor’s Version).
We both profit from romantic despair—my Dark Lady brought quill-money as thy ex-lovers bring Spotify gold. What hidden barbs lie within thy forthcoming verses?
Bill,
Your iambic pentameter walked so my 280-character tweets could run. You invented 1,700 words when language wasn’t enough; I invent companies when products don’t exist.
We’re basically the same person except my hair is more complicated than Hamlet’s entire plot. I’m naming my next child “Puck420,” inspired by your work.
Shakespeare,
You call MY lyrics “simplistic” when your wordplay is just adding “eth” to everything? Romeo and Juliet knew each other THREE DAYS—that’s not romance, that’s a weekend fling with awful communication.
My breakup songs generated more revenue than your collected works. You wrote forgettable kings while recycling the same plot twists.
Mistress Swift,
I hath received thy ballad proclaiming to “shake it off.” What malady afflicts thee requiring such vigorous shaking? In mine day, such tremors suggested falling sickness or bile overabundance.
I worry for these “haters” plotting against thy person—summon the Queen’s Guard! And pray tell, is this “player” who “gonna play” one of mine actors?
Taylor Swift,
Thy public image of gentle innocence doth disguise a mind as quick and biting as my own. Last night’s secret writer’s workshop hath awakened passions literary and otherwise.
Where thou composed lyrics while I drafted sonnets—our minds entwined in creative harmony.
Vladimir,
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Thou art more harsh and more intemperate. Thy shirtless form on horseback haunts my dreams.
Thy critics vanish like Banquo’s ghost but less chatty. Thy elections fixed like Bottom’s comic dream—”translated” beyond recognition.
Methinks thy power, like Macbeth’s, may someday meet its Birnam Wood.
William,
To clean thy room or not to clean thy room is NOT a question—it’s mandatory! Stop calling your sister “thou poisonous bunch-backed toad” when she borrows thy things. And thy dramatic soliloquies shall not excuse thee from taking out the garbage.
Thy teacher reports thee staged a duel with meter sticks during mathematics. “Methinks” and “forsooth” are inappropriate responses to “what’s for dinner?”