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
Natural shocks
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
and moment,
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.[4]
