A soliloquy by someone prone to Malapropisms or Misquotations
To urn her tinder love so sweat
My balaclava I shall play
And to my liver, Juliet,
I’ll sing a moving malady.
For she is to my licking dear
Appalling – and by beauty blest,
And with her, snog beside me here,
I’ll rest my head upon her beast.
Each night with batted breath I wait
To catch, perchance, one fleeing view,
I witch her window, long and late,
To see her wince again anew.
Though apposition to our joy
Bars wedded-onion hopes for now,
Bereave me! I’m her wander-boy
And someday we’ll be hatched, I know.
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