But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
I can’t see because of my Wayfarers are all dirty.
Oh wait, it is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief because of poor environmental consciousness of space
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious, mainly of the fact that I stick to a vegan diet.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green, like that bad schwag I got,
And none but fools do wear it, kind of like Ed Hardy. Cast it off.
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O that she knew she were, but dude you know how epistemology is.
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Is that postmodern?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it with something offbeat like a telegram.
I am too bold; ’tis not to me she speaks, unless I’m still high from last night.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes, which are bluer than Pabst,
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head, I guess that’s how anatomy works. I only know environmental science.
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp, especially one of those weak environmentally friendly ones; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, hopefully something indie, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand, she’s going for a retro look. So anti-conformity.
O that I were a glove upon that hand, a really tight one made by American Apparel,
That I might touch that cheek!