The ghosts of writers past haunt me

They speak in my mind

They flow through my fingers

Shakespeare wrote a new sonnet last night

Though he objected to the keyboard

And demanded pen and paper

I don’t think they really understand

I can’t go out and say

Well, I was speaking to Steinbeck the other week

And he’s started a new novel

That’s a one way trip to the funny farm

Maybe I should cast these seeds

On the winds of the internet

And let the world see the work in anonymity

They objected to this too

Proprietal sods want credit for their labour

It’s not like they can get paid

Not like you need money in the afterlife

And they’ve all got more than enough fame already

Fine, then, fine!

I’ll put their damned names on their works

And if I get hospitalized for delusions

Well, whose fault is that?