Marlow’s Listener

Now, is the summer of our discontent made nuclear winter
by this dark start of stealth
We few, we miserable few, we miserable band of misfits
For he who sheds his skins
with me today
shall be blistered
And men abed in England
shall count themselves to sleep
when any who on Saint Crispin day stays out too late to drink
Don’t
Let it be forgot
Do not go with that mutt
And then, again, it is not penned
and in its wake I do not shake
The end is high,
the nigh is near,
which is not a small beer
So be so, be very so
Be very so indeed
But do not mistake your steed
He is a geld, but not of gold
He has no balls and is not bold
And you will find on his behind
his sire’s sting, the mark of King