“Fear it, Ophelia, fear it,
my dear sister.”
Hamlet; act 1, scene 3
Child, don’t open your buttons; the liquid
dew of youth is a charmed broth. You’ve had thorns
in your credent ear, and we’ve spilled our mud
in the rear of your affections. My horns
and stones fit nicely there. Ophelia felt
Hamlet’s calumnious stroke; it drove her mad.
We have no need for a chastity belt
against contagious blastments. “My comrade
wears a condom.” Do you? I have unmasked
all my virtue to the moon. I’ve drifted
down the silver thread of moonshine. I’ve asked
Queen Mab to bed and not once fouled my blood.
Child, why worry about your maidenhead?
I’ll teach you other ways to cum, instead.
There is no love in this life for older
women. The most you can be is Gertrude,
Hamlet’s mother. But what sort of pleasure
can you find with a melancholy prude
for a son who wants you all to himself?
While Hamlet and Claudius fought Gertrude’s
vibrator buzzed, making her the first MILF,
the first Cougar, first to catch a young dude’s
eye. And why not? Life is short and we all
drink the poison in Act 5. A good fuck
is the least we can do. The last cure-all
until the undiscovered country. Suck
you wet, Gertrude, you who’ve been another
mother to me; my friend, muse and lover.