Sonnet #18

(a parody)

Shall I compare thee to a bale of hay?

Thou art more dusty and far less neat.

Rough winds do toss thy mop about, I'd say,

Which looks far worse than hay a horse would eat.

Sometime thy squinty eye looks into mine

Through stringy, greasy hair that needs be trimm'd,

And ne'er a horse had such a stench as thine,

As though in stagnant sewers thou hast swimm'd.

Thy disgusting image shall not fade;

This my tortured mind and soul doth know.

O, I should love to hit thee with a spade;

And with that blow I hope that thou wouldst go.

So long as I can breathe, my eyes can see,

And I can run, I'll stay away from thee…

(sorry, Will)


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