UnPoetia:The Poop Sonnets
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Poetry for people who hate poetry |
William Shakespeare, famous playwright of classics like Hamlet and Macbeth, also wrote a number of sonnets with a focus on scatalogical functions, commonly known as the Poop Sonnets. They are seldom taught in schools, due to concerns over perceived obscene content, although feces and urine were common topics for poems during the Elizabethan era.
Uncyclopedia is proud to present a selection of these sonnets, in collaboration with the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C.
Sonnet 156
Such woe, my bladder filled right to the brim
If but perchance I sought to take a leak
Yet now my pantaloons now stainèd swim
In urine which now dribbles down my feet!
If only to the loo I'd gone posthaste,
Such musings are the act of lesser men;
My fav'rite pair of leggings would not waste,
But truth be told, I'll piss my pants again.
I never learned to listen to 'ol Blad
My colon wretches yet I never poo
Now brown and yellow mix with tidings glad,
Instead of me relaxing on the loo.
Now no fair maid could ever risk a glance
They run away because I shit my pants!
Sonnet 162
Why did I eat a bucket full of beans?
The merchant said it came from dusty Spain;
So sav'ry yet, like stabs from shadow'd fiend:
It leaves me in a hurricane of pain.
My sphincter cries in anguish from the spice,
Too cloying was the sauce, so fiery red;
Before the pain I would have 'et it twice,
And now the beans awake my colon's dread.
I sit upon a bucket full of shit,
A stench so foul, a soup of red and green;
To sit and shit for hours with no quit,
My anus wet from spewing muddy steam!
The beans were truly foe disguised as friend,
Yet somehow, I shall eat those beans again.
Sonnet 169
A hundred meals of oats and grain I ate;
But water I had yet to sip and drink,
Now crowning from my anus as of late:
The largest poop I'd ever done, methinks.
It bellowed as it plopp'd into the bowl,
A wave of water splash'd upon my ass;
So empty was the feeling in my hole,
No chunk of poo, nor vented fetid gas
Almóst a foot it measured toe to tip,
A waxy sheen upon its pimpled face;
Both hands could never hold it in clos'd grip,
Too wide and hard, yet smelled of clove and mace.
A solid, brownish trophy of my strain,
But like all shits, it must go down the drain.
See also
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