I’m not a fighter, nor will I ever be able to throw down like Tyson,
Although I can’t float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,
My promise to every thug, gangster, and 6 pack ego maniac,
Don’t mistake my black eyes and Hunter Thompson cigarette addiction,
As a form of backing down or quitting,
While your celebrating a win,
I’m going to spit some Shakespeare and steal your woman,
I’ll walk with a limp, my arm in a brace,
Introduce myself without telling her my name,
“Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.” (Love’s Labour’s Lost)
Muscles and brute force are barbaric,
Call me a sissy, a faggot,
Do you feel good about yourself?
What I lack in athletic ability,
Malcolm, Martin, and Mandela inspired,
When your girl asks me what I do,
I’ll tell her,
“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.” (Midsummer Night’s Dream)
Everyday I write love letters,
Which cause the ocean to moan,
Due to the moon’s seductive reflection.
Mount Everest quivers after the tip of my pen,
Caresses my notebook,
Are you mad?
Can’t believe what is happening?
Going to kill me?
Before you strangle me,
You remember last night?
When your woman moaned,
Thought it was due to your stamina,
Skill and attributes,
Wanna’ know a little secret,
She faked it!
Truth be told,
She was thinking of me,
Didn’t you notice her eyes were closed,
It was after you beat me senseless,
In front of your woman,
I sat up,
Put on my broken glasses,
Smiled a sinister grin,
Started sketching my name in an Oak Tree,
Asked her to come over,
Complimented her with a clever line,
“Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where pleasant fountains lie.
She would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.” (Hamlet)
Felt the softness of her lips,
While she took of all her clothes,
“My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones.” (A Midsummer’s Night Dream)
Now, you can finish what you started,
As blood flows from my temple,
While you were sleeping,
We gave into our desires,
‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying and said ‘Ay.’