"Honey! Where Are The Servants!?"

Since there's no help, come let us twist and fart,
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am mad, yea, mad with all my heart,
That thus so poorly I myself can flee;
Shake fists for ever, cancel all our rants,
And when we meet in any hell again,
Be it not seen in either of our pants
That we one Lot of former love retain.
Now at the last gas of love's morning breath,
When his pulse flailing, passion shameless lies,
When faith is screaming by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his [something funnier than eyes],
-Now if thou would'st, when all have buried him under,
From love to hate thou might'st him tear asunder!

Sonnet LxXxI, Michael Gayton

/personally beloved poem
//mocked into meaningless gore
///open the door
////get on the floor
/////everybody walk the dinosaur