Shall I Compare Thee To Your Mother's Arse

Shall I compare thee to your mother's ****? Thou aren’t more lovely, but more flatulent. Rough winds do shake it; and bring on a farce And all her clothes hath all too short a rent Sometime too hot-headed of hell doth burn, And often is the true nature exposed; And every foul from fowl; my stomach churns, By reason, or by nature's raging closed. But thy infernal diet shall ne’er start Nor gain possession of which now I grasp; Nor shall we meet again; let’s stay apart, When in eternal sounds the voice does rasp, So long as men can breathe or eyes can cry, So long lives this, and I bid thee goodbye.