Shakespeare..

..I'm verily not. As I was valiant in effort and pespiration sorting out the sheafs of cereal-kind fodder on my desk yester eve, I came across this scant dribbling I made. 'Twas done when I had to while away the grains, some time ago. Lo, here's how it goes:

I'm so hungry
it's not even funny.
I could eat a rhino
if it's dipped in curry.
My stomach's empty,
there's nothing in it,
even a lint nary.
I wish someone would just
feed me.
I know people in Chilele,
could hear my tummy.
It's empty.
Growling. Hungry. Not happy.

How doth thy liketh it? Entrancing scribe vomit, 'tis not? Indeed, the very action that sway the quill that was plucked off an ancient raven's wings to this parchment is masterly as their content, so masterful such depiction. A guiless guile. To the common, splendor'd, even. Aha.

Love's Labours Lost, Act I, Scene i, Ferdinand to Costard
"Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter
that obscene and preposterous event, that draweth
from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which
here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest;