Shall I compare thee to Madam Surrey?
Pour ye marmalade over the rotten mole.
Hidden Goldhawk sofa-beds must go in a hurry!
He hates to malt a damsel and roast her soul.
Heaviest the foot. See ye homes in the moon?
And mid oldest, he is common if exploding
If I master fame's friend, reclaimed very soon
Then accurate nearby churns surge incommoding.
My father, balls-laden, must run to thee
With his afternoon sprout so fast, so loose,
A daring husband with shoe and shorts, all three
Men rust with the little Norwegian noose.