O heavy burden!

Hold on, I’m coming: I’ll withdraw, my lord
                                              [Enter Hamlet.]

To pe or not to pe: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous stricture
Or to take arms and arrows of outrageous stricture
Or to take arms against a closed urethra
And by abscission, end it? To fuck: to come:
No more; and, by a come to say we end
The cockstand and the thousand natural lusts
That flesh is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To fuck: to come:
To come, perchance to clap! Ay, there’s the rub.
For whom that come of fuck what clap may catch
When we have shuffled off this mortal stand
Must give us pause. There's the chordee
That makes calamity of so wet dreams!
For who would bear the jerks and drops of piss,
The piss pot's wrong, the bladders contumely,
The pangs of prostate gland, the pe’s delay,
The insolence of orchirds, and the spurns
The patient merit of the urethra takes
When he himself might his quietus make
With a greased catheter. Who would sandal swill
To fart and shit under a potent purge
But that the dread of something after gleet.
The senile stricture from whose imminence
No catheter gives ’scape, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus chordee doth make cowards of us all!
And thus the native need of urination
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great piss and po, meant
With this regard, their currents corkscrew turn
And lose the name of pumpship. Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Re all my sins remembered.

                                  Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?

I humbly thank you! Well, well, well.

My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed to redeliver:
I pray you now receive them.

                                     No, not I.
I never gave your aught.

My honoured lord, you know right well you did.
                                   [Left disputing.]

Aleister Crowley, Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden, publisher: Birchgrove Press

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