Shall I compare thee to a summer day,
In England, as beneath the oak we lay,
And gaze upon the peaceful green terrain,
That local folk have christened Salisbury Plain.

Come look, my love, and turn thy gaze o'er there,
Is that a skylark, hanging in the air?
That sings upon the wing, in skyward soar?
But no, 'tis but a helicopter's roar.

Upon thy lap I'll lay my weary head.
What is that rumble? 'Tis time thou were fed?
But no, it groweth louder! To be frank,
We'd best move, or be run down by a tank.

I think, my love, to pray would be in order,
It seemeth many leagues until the border
Of this here firing range, and, heaven's bells!
I apprehend the buggers use live shells!

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Last updated: Sun, 8 Apr 2001.