My love is like a red, red rose,
a healthy shade of brick;
her sweet perfumes doth make me sneeze;
her scent doth make me sick.

My lady's eyes are like the sky
on horrid wintry days,
that putrid hue of yellow bile
with hints of green-ish grey.

Her lofty brow - the thickest, of
Neanderthal descent.
Her hands, so coarse and hairy,
show her ancestral bent.

My lady's voice is like the dove's
that's choked on city smog.
She cannot coo - instead, she croaks
Like an operatic frog

My lady's hair is smooth as silk
that's spun by aging worms.
It, brittle, breaks beneath my touch.
With love my stomach churns.

My lady love is quite mature;
her hands show liver spots.
But I'm sure of her fidelity --
she'll love me 'til she rots.

My love is like a nettle bunch
to make me scratch and sting.
Her voice is like a dying crow's
when dirges doth she sing.

The boils on her fair, fair flesh
do glisten in the light.
I know not of what ill she suffers,
of what disease or blight.

My lady's lips, like two fat clams
do pulse in living death.
A sweet stench of dying fish
doth issue forth with every breath.

My lady's skin is swan's-neck white
and to perfection near
Its tone is snow against midnight
Rich darkness of her beard.

This time I've won, I think you know
for truly can I say
that she -- my sweetest lady fair!
you'd ne'er seduce away.