My FAWM.org friends Chris Adams and Tim Wille were playing a li'l game on Facebook that mingled the great bard with the great band. Here are the ones they came up with. Can YOU do better? (Imagine a pointing finger Uncle Sam here)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song, and I'll try not to sing out of key.
To be, or not to be good-looking cos he's so hard to see, that is the question.
Messers K. and H. assure the public
their production will be second to none, and of course, Henry the horse, the horse, my kingdom for a horse!
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow never knows.
A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool on the hill.
Shall I compare thee to a hard summer's day night?
Because the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, it turns me on, a-a-a-a-ah
The lady Madonna doth protest too much, methinks
it was twenty years ago today, sergeant Pepper told the band to, if music be the food of love, play
Something in the way she moves is rotten in the state of Denmark.
And in the end, the love you take looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody
O call back yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay, oh I believe in yesterday, bid time return.
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's good day sunshine.
Who is it who can tell me who I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together?
Set honor in one eye and death in the other, and I will look at the world, and I notice it's turning while my guitar gently weeps.
Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head, found my way downstairs and drank a cup, and looking up, I noticed I was late. Found my coat and grabbed my hat, made the bus in seconds flat. Found my way upstairs and had a smoke, and somebody spoke and I went into a dream. Aye, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.