Shall I compare thee to a bag of chips?
Thou art more greasy and less desired.
Strong winds do shake the dimpled bed at night,
And morning breath hath burned at any rate.
Sometime too hard the kicking of the shins,
And often is his bald complexion dulled;
And all affairs are fairly fast declined,
By chance, or nature’s straggly beard, untrimmed;
But thy eternal belching shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that gut tha knows,
Nor shall old bags who wand’rest in the shops,
When in bus queues at Times tha groans.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives I, and this old git with me
Gavin Turner 