[Roger Slater]

I'm thinking that this could be called a single poem, though for present purposes it is six entries (each line being an anagram of the title):


Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

I am the scrotum’s amoral sleepyhead.
O hear me, misplaced trashy soul mate!
A pothead stammers lecherously, "I am!"
I am the lousy, mad, complete harasser.
I am a harlot’s homely, desperate scum.
I am the prayerless, custom-made halo.

[Roger Slater]

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Smell unending, tormented bathroom!

[Roger Slater]

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

I am the sunny, two-faced, sneering swineherd.
I am an unhinged wrencher of tidy sweetness.

[John Whitworth]

That's a winner, Roger.

[George Simmers]

I've tried to modernise Shakespeare's comparison of two types of female charm by rewriting it in the mode of modern Northern realism:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

‘A reet skinny hussy?’ he leers. ‘No! Gimme tits!’

[Roger Slater]

From fairest creatures we desire increase.

Sweatier, safe, merrier seducers fornicate.
Terrific swearers desecrate nefarious me.
Weird sorcerer nauseates carefree misfit.

[John Whitworth]

Scrabble tiles are the answer. All my previous posts are bullshit. This is definitive. To paraphrase the divine Hilaire Belloc, I've done quite enough of this horrible stuff and I don't want to do any more. It's obsessional.


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

Hate fresh, greeny, wobbly owl shit!

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field

Trite fancy lady bunged sheep shit. Indeed!

Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now

O Dot, new zoo lady, hoover syrupy gnu shit.

Will be a tottered weed of small worth held.

Or we tell them toad shit, O lewd dwarf belle.

Then, being asked where all thy beauty lies

Neal, the brainy weedy geek, hates bull shit.

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days:

Leery, easy Hull whores hate fatty turds.

To say within thine own deep sunken eyes

Yon weeny nudie poet wins the snake shit.

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise

A thief wanders in Penge, steals rare llama shit.

[Nausheen Eusuf]

Oh my god, I think I'm going to die laughing! Who knew the bard's eternal lines could be perverted so?

Nausheen

[Roger Slater]

John, those are a riot, but does Lucy publish "shit"?