When twelve thousand postings shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in they beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be yet an untattered weed, of great worth held.
Then being asked where all they beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy BS's use
If thou couldst answer, "These fair kids of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,"
Proving their BS by succession thine!
This were to be new-made when MOAB's old
And see thy blood warm, and tell them all, "Kiss off, you broke-dick mamaluca fuck-wits!"

         --William Staidspeare, Sonnet LXIX (London: At Ye Signe Of Ye Richard Heade, 1606 ff.).