Beware the thorns on pretty roses
Shall I compare thee to a blooming rose?
Thy striking allure and embracing pose
A single glance and all kings froze
Pondering the thought of thee without clothes
Alas beneath the crimson skirt that thee wear
Lie the treacherous thorns, the fangs that thee bear
The fire, the flame, the desire, all in thy stare
As ye ripple the darling golden hair
Magnificen’th at times doth roses entice
Truly hot ye may be, but tonight, as cold as ice
Sitting akin to a Queen, on a throne, eating rice
So good is that rice, that ye ate it twice
Where doth thee grasp such eternal beauty?
Such perfection lingers around thy booty
Such sweetness I consume, as if my duty
For thy booty seemed indeed very fruity
Blasphemy! I say unto thee!
Dare not I say, ever mix rice with tea
A Queen ye may be, but ye smell like pee
And a rose ye may be, but from thy thorns I flee