Shall I compare thee to a
dead Portuguese man-of-war lying
bloated on a
polluted
beach?
Thou art more
vile and more
useless.
Rough winds do attack the
carcass of my
love
And
seagulls do pick at her, only to find
The
sting of her
wicked wicked
tongue.
The tide may come and the sun may beat
Down on my love's tentacly feet.
The children may stare and the sand, it may fly,
But for my dead bloated Portuguese man-of-war on a polluted beach,
I won't cry.
Through gray skies ahead and thunderclouds above
My eye stands dry for my love.
The seagulls pick and the wind, it blows,
But for my dead bloated Portuguese man-of-war on a polluted beach,
No emotion shows.
The candy wrappers pass my love by without a sound,
The coke bottles roll steadily on the ground,
There's crap of all kinds strewn all around,
Including love, both lost and found.