Shall I Not Compare Thee To a Summer's Day
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more grating and much more vile.
Foul winds do exit your own mouth today,
Makes me want to put you to sleep awhile.
Sometimes I’d slice some sort of soft sausage,
And often wish it was in fact your face;
Every incision, precision and rage.
I run away as fast, as thou keeps pace.
But the eternal pain in ass of mine
Which thou creates, for thou art a big toad;
Even to death’s eye would thou bring him brine,
Refusing you entrance to his abode.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, men will come to hate thee.
|