Shall I compare thee to a Mancunian May?
Thou art more soggy, more dost irritate.
Rough winds do make thee belch and fart all day
And summat’s up with thy deodorant, mate.
Sometimes too red thy nose in daylight shines,
At times by grime thy rough complexion’s dimmed
And every fair thy offered date declines –
No chance, of course, when thy beard stays untrimmed.
But thy eternal whinging shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that quid thou ows’t.
Thou’d like to brag of thy designer shades
And snort some big fat lines while scoffing toast.
So long as I can breathe and smell and see,
So long, I prithee, keep away from me.
Notes: Oh, look, another sonnet. A somewhat rambling parody, I’m running a fever and my head’s not quite all there…