Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Perhaps a date in late July or so?
Admittedly, I wished you’d come and stay
but now I tire of you and wish you’d go.
Thou art as stifling as the summer air
and twice as suffocating as the heat
Like grass so dry and scorched beyond repair
so too the death of love is near complete.
Thou art as clingy as my drenched T-shirt
You hang upon me with your putrid stench
I fear it may come off as rather curt
but I am sick of you, you awful wench!
The summer soon will end and turn to fall
I pray you, too, will leave and never call.
submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, A Birthday in April - Shakespeare
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