Shall I compare thee to a bored cliché?
Shall your eyes be as deep as the wild sea?
And your bosoms as soft as china clay?
And your skin so luminous and milky?
Shall I tattoo my spidery love scrawls,
Onto the leaflets of your broken heart?
And flash my downcast eyes until I fall,
Into the pit of your harrowing art?
Shall we have endless, bountiful blue skies?
And blankets of a starry, daydreamed night?
And metaphorical angels that fly,
Into the red sun, anguished in their flight?
Oh why won’t we all just simply admit –
That Will was a tool who sung through his dick?