PHAKESPEAREAN SONNET # 81
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more frigid and less temperate!
You are so cold and do not wish to play—
And autumn’s lease hath all too short a date!
Sometimes so cold the eye of heaven’s blind,
And summer’s gold complexion also dimmed,
Wild Nature’s changing course the light’s declined,
And summer’s canopy of green is trimmed.
But thy eternal winter shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of thy frosty shell,
But death shall brag you wandered in his shade,
You icy witch I hope you'll go to hell!
So long as life can breathe you are to me
An evil bitch who inflicts misery!
~by Bilious Phakespeare
ANTHEM FOR DOOMED POETS
What hell if you can’t get into Rattle?
Only the monstrous anger of their puns.
Only their stuttering couplets gone to battle
Can patter out their hasty speech in tongues.
No mockeries for them, rejected by Kenyon,
Nor any voice of mourning save the bards
The poets who all tried so very hard
But The New Yorker rejected everyone.
What candles may be held to help them write?
Not in the pens of poets, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmer of failed tries
The judgement of Poetry shall be their blight
To hell with fancy journals—they’re all so dumb!
We’ll stick with tried and true— our great Spectrum!
~by Pillhead Borin'
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