Your Ugly Errors Rest Beneath Your Skin

A reply to Shakespeare's Sonnet 141

Your ugly errors rest beneath your skin,

Your words horrific to offended ears,

Your tasteless mind compelling you to sin

Against me; let my fragrance draw your tears.

In grace and charm I lack but not in this;

This ardent voice devours your pride until

At length you must be prone to this fierce kiss,

Whose taste turns sour; a sensual feast to kill.

All faults am I in every sense; and yet

Your heart desires this hag you scorn, but why;

For your fulfilment you owe me a debt,

This ‘wit’ of yours has destined you to die:

Yet love’s eternal grief diseases still

My heart; this be my sentence and His will.