Pastiche Of The Week - Shakespeare Sonnet 147

My love is as a beaver, searching still

For that which longer nurseth the damn fleas,

Feeding on me and my accursed Will,

The sadomasochistic appetite to please.

My scratcher, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I, desperate, now approve

Desire is death – indulgently I wept.

Past cure I am, now itching is past care,

And frantic mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as human’s are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed:

For I have scratched thy back, and itched thee right,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.