Sonnet 18

(To My Mistress Thirty Years On)

Your ass is a couplet

Without any rhyme.

I’d make it a sonnet

But haven’t the time.

Your tits in their realm

Are as Scylla to Charybdis:

To come in between them

Requires preparedness.

I’d sing of things other–

E.g.,  your white thighs–

If only my mother

Hadn’t said Don’t tell lies.

In short this refrain

Is all about beauty;

Your brain is a drain

And you don’t have the booty.