Shakespeherian rag #2

Shall I compare you with a classic line?
Or does modernity demand something
A little more risqué? The countless times
I’ve chewed the fat of words intent to sing
Your praise only to choke on artifice,
Parading myself tarted in dead bards’
Clothes, the stench of overwear like stale piss
Invades the highways of language towards
You my lover, and everything that’s under
The sun can’t just be cut to fit your being
Nor shaped to show you off a flawless wonder
Drifting feyly through some ersatz scene.
My words are ashes scattered in the sea,
The truth of us is tragicomedy.


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