Sonnet 18 beta
(a Shakesperian no more)
Shall I compare thee to some old quisine,
perhaps moldy bread or rotten meat gone green?
Thou art no more lovely than fettid rancid cheese,
cat food made up from old mashed up mare,
rough stomach winds that gnaw my bowels with gall,
wormy pig blood cake, fly buzzed fish-head bake!
Our fine suppers date hath overstayed to thus decomposed state:
wasabi passion now just tasteless and grindy stale.
Oh how the lukewarm scraps of our love reeks,
of crawfish heads and disentangled leeks,
and how oft to ruddy is my complexion churned;
to drink the rats excrement of my loving spurned,
and every foul as far as foul can carry,
oh long I not for the stench of the sour milk that I did marry.
Wilted lettuce and compost cookies
thank God by nature's changing course truly turned
to earthy toad stool and recipies unlearned.
And should Heaven forbid not the nausia of thy rank aroma fade,
Hell then chop my nose with a scalpel blade!
Nigh will I lose possession of that fearful memory,
of our love now as a maggot crested turkey – squirmy!
Can only death deliver my woe from thy gargoyles table,
thy caviar to offal, just a twisting meal trapped unstable!
When will this damned eternal ailment rest?
So long as men can dine and mouthes can taste,
so long flee I the smell of thee with no small haste!
Copyright Marius Buys 2013
(But may be freely shared electronically)
Bwahahaha!
