Shall I compare thee to a winter's day?
Thou art more brittle and more predictable:
Icy winds do make thy hair resemble hay,
Thou love thyself, don't go near a stable:
Sometime too hard the eye wouldst lie upon,
And often enough thy complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime scorns,
Truth be told, thy hair needs be trimm'd;
But thy eternal aura doth manage to hold,
Patient I must be, with that thou ow'st,
Or I'll knock thy head with a Jell-O mold,
And with that blow, eternally thou go'st;
So long as I can breathe, mine eyes can see,
So long thou art gone, I'll chant with glee.
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