Time doth stand still, whilst thou art in mine arms,
The moon itself, doth cease to cross night's skies,
As Luna's light cedes to thy welkin charms,
In wond'rous awe, beauteous sparkle of thine eyes.
Great idea, though I've got to tell you Will,
You're fancy words, I fear they are for naught,
I've given thought, to having time stand still,
The concept's mine, original you're not.
Who art thee knave, who speaketh in strange tongue,
How hast thee nerve, to name great bard as Will?
From forth mine lips, sweet odes of love art sung,
I fear thy thoughts, with bats thou belfry fill.
Now listen hear, you crazy English fop,
Some sweet thing's eyes, as if a person cared,
Will never cause, Big Ben, his hands to stop,
For stop of time, e=mc2.
Prepare to arms, thee fool with frazzled hair,
Mine sword is drawn, with sharpened edge shall kill,
Demented twit, to duel I do thee dare,
Upon yon ground, thy useless blood shalt spill.
Beg to differ, my fancy English friend,
Who sits there with such snootyish aplomb,
For is not I, that will to Hades wend,
For I am called, father of atomic bomb.
[This message has been edited by Mike (edited 12-02-1999).]