Sonnet 18 Parody

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Thou art much more shrivelled and much more cold Rough winds shake the withered leaves of today. And your stomach hath too many a fold. Sometimes too hot your sister shines, And often is your grey complexion dimmed; And you always smell like my uncle’s swine Except your upper lip is less well trimmed. Thy eternal summer did long since fade And lost possession of that fair thou ow'st; And Satan brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives death to eyes.