Canto 17
by Wolf Larsen
Who will believe my toenails in times to come? Who will hallucinate my verses with me?
And now imagine your pussy fill'd with my warm creamy desserts,
Though yikes! Sluts in heaven! It is a merry tomb!
Which hides your testicle philosophies, and shows not half your christian evangelist boobs!
If I could write the beauty of your buttocks
While in fresh diarrhea written on manuscripts all the poets sing your graces,
The age to come explodes with burning poetry, and the Poet lies buried under all the stars & moons of his poems:
Such heavenly touches with delirious paintbrushes!
So should my insane universes of words burst supernovas everywhere!
And be scorn'd like talking philosophical pigeons with Baroque tongues,
While your sacrificial rites be performed with poet's diarrhea & blood & piss
In a stretched vagina with 1,000,000 doorways:
But were some LSD creations of yours alive at that time?
That's why you should live through 10 generations as 10 different people!
Copyright 2012 by Wolf Larsen
Sonnet XVII
by William Shakespeare
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes 5
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, 10
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. 14