Shakespeare, he’s in the Alley
The man in the frock with pointy shoes and bells, stood in line at the soup kitchen in the Bowery on a warm summer morning. His flowing dark wavy hair fell to his shoulders, and he flipped his hair back as the other homeless people gaped at him. “Can I have kippers and bangers with a side of Yorkshire pudding please,” he said to the man doling out food when he got to the head of the line. The man looked him up and down for a moment and replied, “This isn’t the Windsor Castle here. You’ll take what we got,” as he ladled a pile of watery porridge on to his plate. The odd looking man sat down on the curb next to the other hungry denizens of the underworld. The man sitting next to him greeted him and asked for his name. “My name is Willie Spear,” he said. “My name is Dean,” came the reply. “Where are you from Willie?” “Why I come from Stratford-on-Avon,” Willie said. “Is that in Connecticut?” Willie looked puzzled. “I know not where that place is. I come from the midlands an