The Perfect Sonnet

Thy dripping tongue, it blesseth as it sprays
on pigeon stools and patsy rattailed nerds
whose convolutions keep them trapped for days
in front of websites filled with naked birds.
Thine arse may know the sting of slinging shlong
for reason says that Shakespeare too was gay
(the wig and tights alone say owt was wrong,
what were you thinking, sweet Miss Hathaway?)
O love, a jury said you were deranged
with boobs and balls both equal in your view
but lighter sentence you have now arranged
as on the judge's apricots you blew.
But still, you write such tender poetry
I wish you'd give your spotty arse to me.