Yankee Pot Roast


William Shakespeare, da Bard

Michael Fowler

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thy booty to a summerís day, bitch?
Thy booty art so hot and stankiní, I sweat and itch.
Thugz run from taverns to scope so quizzically
Thy ripe, bounciní booty gliding by so physically.

Wench, thou hast what I want, shake it, shake it;
Wench, thou hast what I need, shake it, shake it.

Inconstant summer doth fade and turn to snow;
And beauty from beautiful things sails Eastward-ho.
But bitch, thy booty art like eternal summer,
Though not so hot I canít plant my tongue on thy hummer.
Need money? íZounds, I got pounds, if thou treatíst me right;
This homey will mess with thee and caress thee all through the night.

Verily, back it up against me, move it, move it;
Verily, push it up against me, move it, move it.

But, soft! I wants to lip dat booty with extreme suction;
Thy booty art made for continuous sexual function.
Turn thy jiggliní cakes my way, ho, wear thy sweet smile;
This randy varletís gonna hop on thy booty doggy-style.