Shakespeare To His Wife, Ann Hathaway Poem by David McLansky

To my angry, shrewish bitter wife,
Who threw at me both pan and knife,
Who told me I was bound to fail
And end my life in debtor's jail;
How right I was to run, abscond,
From you of whom I was not fond;
You had me in your old maid's bed,
Your belly swelled, I had to wed;
What gratitude did I incur?
You answered me with every slur;
I ran away to London Town,
A poacher being chased by hounds,
And there learned to hold a horse,
And became an actor to your remorse;
After all these years and my brief stays,
My gold aroused no word of praise;
And now I'm sick and write my will,
My hand shakes so with ink and quill,
I leave to you my second bed
In remembrance that you wished me dead