A sailor shot an albatross.
His shipmates were a total loss.
He told this to a wedding guest
Which made the fellow quite depressed.

Families are awful.
Kids are best aborted.
Sex should be unlawful.
No sex- problem sorted

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
You’re playful, and I do adore play,
But lady, might we end the foreplay?

Dans le Metro

I travelled once by underground
And saw some faces which I found
Oddly reminded me somehow
Of petals on a dampish bough.

À la recherche du temps perdu

Come Mum.
Me tea,
Take cake.
Dunk. Thunk.

Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches and I'm feeling numb.
I'm ready for my death to come.
That birdsong makes me drunk as booze.
Am I awake, or do I snooze?

Canterbury Tales

April showers
bring May flowers;
both bring
pilgrims.

This Be Verse

They fuck you up, your dad and mum,
As they were fucked up by their own.
It can’t be helped. To breed is dumb.
Go buy some books and live alone.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of daffodills, so lovely they
Remain inside my head today.

There's a touch of outside-the-lines genius in George's longer version of Pound's shorter original. And since the rubric calls for entries that "encapsulate" (instead of, say, "condense") other poems, it can't be disqualified on a technicality.

Martin's right -- Lucy is sure to be in cup-runneth-over mode this time.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

The moving hand writes as you sup.
Throw repentance and hope in your cup.
This beaker of clay was alive yesterday.
Life’s short and death’s dusty: drink up.