Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Pity about your nasty acne problem,
And all those scars all over your face.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
But isn't it a real bugger the way the fallen
Delay all the Intercity trains...
Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
If you dinnae run a wee bit faster
I'll run the combine harvester over you--
What a disaster!