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Wolf Larsen & Shakespeare Dancing at the Gay Pride Parade Together
Canto 6
by Wolf Larsen
Let 6,000,000 tirades raaage before your face!
Because in you lives the summer, which is a distillery of horny-delight!
Making sweet vials of imaginary skies; which seethes with satanic drumbeats
Those drums beating & beating with beauty's rants to the gods of sin,
Whose sexual prowess is the most forbidden happiness,
Where poppies grow out of the coins in her eyes;
And now you're breeding another glorious devil with your heavenly-phallus!
So be ten times the great penis zapper! Be it ten inches for every saint’s Kingdom of Anus;
Ten inches in thyself were happier than endless summers of smiles,
If ten inches of the greatest verbs and ten inches of the most sinful noun:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart to millions of stars,
Leaving poetry living in our sins?
Always sexing yourself with yourself, and thou art much too involved in sexy fairytales
To be death's smiling cake, and make worms happy is everybody's destiny!
Copyright 2012 by Wolf Larsen
Sonnet VI
by William Shakespeare
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
by Wolf Larsen
Let 6,000,000 tirades raaage before your face!
Because in you lives the summer, which is a distillery of horny-delight!
Making sweet vials of imaginary skies; which seethes with satanic drumbeats
Those drums beating & beating with beauty's rants to the gods of sin,
Whose sexual prowess is the most forbidden happiness,
Where poppies grow out of the coins in her eyes;
And now you're breeding another glorious devil with your heavenly-phallus!
So be ten times the great penis zapper! Be it ten inches for every saint’s Kingdom of Anus;
Ten inches in thyself were happier than endless summers of smiles,
If ten inches of the greatest verbs and ten inches of the most sinful noun:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart to millions of stars,
Leaving poetry living in our sins?
Always sexing yourself with yourself, and thou art much too involved in sexy fairytales
To be death's smiling cake, and make worms happy is everybody's destiny!
Copyright 2012 by Wolf Larsen
Sonnet VI
by William Shakespeare
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.