A summer’s day? Petal, that’s not me.
Temperate I’m not, although I’ve got rough wind.
My farts would fell a halitosic ox, and darling buds
don’t stand a chance; don’t lease me summer –
I prefer to buy. The eye of heaven I love
(you never got to Tenerife), but yes,
we do decline like verbs, and me,
placing our eternal summers in your hands;
eternal lines apart, what could give life to me?
Wise up, Will lad, I’m dead.
Get back to work, just like your glover Dad,
peering through the night at fourchettes, quirks and tranks,
by a brief uncertain candle.
In response to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day”