“Let Me Not to the Bleating of True Goats”

Let me not to the bleating of true goats
admit false excrement.
Poop is not poop that alters when it constipation finds.
Or bends with the mucker to remove.
No, it is an ever-tumbling rain of pellets
That stick to hooves and shan’t be shaken.

It is the dung on every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although its grams be taken.
Poop’s no mere stool, that wagging butts
and tails doth lift to dump.
Poop alters not with mud and snow and sleet,
But bears it out, even to the last shovel’s doom.
If this be error or appears depraved,
I never shat, nor no goat ever brayed.

–Molino

Poem based upon:
Sonnet 116: Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds
By William Shakespeare, 1590s

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.