To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Tabloids,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of Wrinkles,
And by using Botox end them?
To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The back-ache, and the thousand
That Flesh is heir to? '
Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance with night cream;
Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what snores may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pre-nuptual clause.
There's the Respect Party
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the UKIP and yawns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's
Great British Bake Off,
The pangs of despised Gove,
the Law’s delay,
The excellence of The Office, and Cardinal Burns
That patient ferret of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his home brew make
With a bare Bodkin?
Who would these Farage fans bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered suitcase carousel, from where Jason Bourne,
No Traveler, returns,
Puzzles the uncontested Bear Grylls,
And makes us rather bear,
Those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus Conscience does make Noel Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is googled o'er,
with the pale cast of Thought for the day,
And enterprises of comment is free pitch
With this regard their Comments turn awry,
And shout the name of fracking.
Soft you now, The fair Ophelia.
Nymph, in all thy lads mags,
Be thou all my sins remembered.