Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thy booty to a summer’s day, bitch?
Thy booty art so hot and stankin’, I sweat and itch.
Thugz run from taverns to scope so quizzically
Thy ripe, bouncin’ booty gliding by so physically.
Chorus:
Wench, thou hast what I want, shake it, shake it;
Wench, thou hast what I need, shake it, shake it.
Inconstant summer doth fade and turn to snow;
And beauty from beautiful things sails Eastward-ho.
But bitch, thy booty art like eternal summer,
Though not so hot I can’t plant my tongue on thy hummer.
Need money? ‘Zounds, I got pounds, if thou treat’st me right;
This homey will mess with thee and caress thee all through the night.
Chorus:
Verily, back it up against me, move it, move it;
Verily, push it up against me, move it, move it.
But, soft! I wants to lip dat booty with extreme suction;
Thy booty art made for continuous sexual function.
Turn thy jigglin’ cakes my way, ho, wear thy sweet smile;
This randy varlet’s gonna hop on thy booty doggy-style.
