UnPoetia:Shall I Compare Thee With Thy Mother, 'Ey?

Poetry for people who hate poetry

Shall I compare thee with thy mother, ‘ey?

She art more shapely and more lovely.

Alloweth she prince or peasant with her to have their way

For a charge so cheap ‘tis almost free.

Sometimes too hot thy stain of womanhood burns

And thou becometh moody and attempt my throat to cut

And every obedient woman from obedience sometimes turns

Through chance or influence of some feminist slut.

But her eternal accessibility shall not fade

Nor regain possession of the pregnancy curse

And daily, in secretive forest or sunny glade

Shall she her clients in her blubber immerse.

For the bounded time thou mother lives

Shall there be another who better fellatio gives.