What nonsense is this I read?
How dare thou speak’st of unfaithful deeds
Which I have not committed?
Thou speak’st of lack of reciprocity
But I gave mountains of love to thee!
There’s nothing wrong I did—
I’m as pure as Adam and Eve,
Before the forbidden fruit was cleaved!
Pure as newly cleansèd sheets,
Waiting for our consummation!
Who hath been the one to go
Off the road, away from all safety
To confess despite my friends’ strong tows—
“Women are evil, women are bad!”
All my friends yelled in a fad?
Yet, I went against my friends,
Just for thee.
THEE!
Thou hadst caught my eye in a trap,
Full of ethereal, fairy sap,
While all my friends were playing games,
Whilst all my friends wore shiny armor,
I sat alone, writing, all lame,
A letter, a poem to show mine amour:
I scribbled in a dark corner with great furor,
A clumpy lump of meat, all full of torpor!
Agonizing over this or that—
Which poem will make thee my lover?
I gave thee gifts of wond’rous luxury—
Armor and swords I could have had my own,
Lightsabers—wait different century—
That football that hath been years my own,
Pins I won with painful groans and moans—
All the treasures in my treasury.
Is this too little for thee?
Dost thou think’st that with the lack of letters,
That my love for thee lacks any matter?
Thou simply sendest too many letters,
I’m filled with endless pitter patter,
Endless and endless and endless and endless and endless—
I cannot write as many as thee.
Thou knowest a writer I am not,
I’m no heavenly bard—can’t write a blot—
I’m boorish in writing as the bear
Handling a soft, paltry pear—
No muse wishes for my possession,
In disgust of my boorish rhyming procession!
No fault of mine, not at all it is
That I couldn’t give you a daily kiss:
There was school, there was church,
There were games full of mirth
That I shan’t miss to keep my friends,
Else I’d go to a friendless dead end!
I had to receive my army training,
The instructor said, “No complaining!”
I had to get a public standing,
Else—there’s no future for us!
Oh, the beguiles of women!
The deceptions of women!
I know what saddens thee, what depresses thee:
It is that thou knowest a man other than me,
But cannot be with him because of me!
What a dimwit I was to expect any different!
Like a maddened bull I had chargèd,
Unknowing there’s naught behind the red—
So I chargèd toward this Beatrice,
Unknowing there’s naught in this mistress
But a cask of horns!
It’s just as they say: every woman’s a devil in mask,
Holding in their bosom a small horn-filled cask—
“Wanna know my bosom secrets?”, so they say,
Beguiling you into some horny play,
And BOOM! there goes the horns on your head!
That’s it!
You shall not have an inkling no more
Of my love or my lovely long boar!
You shall have none but my disdain,
I’ll put you under mountains of infamy,
Expose you to the pain of shame!
I’ll clasp my heart, let not a drop ooze out
Of passion or anything of that sort,
Because we all know women are just a sick gout,
Delinquents who default on loans of love,
Always trying to find an out.
You shall be known as a licentious bootlicker of all those men that are not Benedick!
Not yours truly,
Benedick.