When I was 18, I decided to rewrite the famous soliloquy from Hamlet

Booty, or not booty—that is the question.
Whether it’s nobler in grind to rub up
against a pushin’ cushion in the club
or to seek out a fine fit young shawty,
and leave that birthday cake behind
on the floor; and by a fit shawty, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand necessary shots
that a fatty is heir to? ‘Tis a complication
because shawty knows, I do like my cake.
Cake, chocolate cake; Man, there’s the rub,
For in that booty, what troubles may come,
when we can’t push her badonk-adonk
out the damn door. There’s a respect
in a girl who can fit through a doorframe:
For who would bear the hips and thighs of booty,
The other brother’s staring, the hood kids laughing,
The pangs of granny panties, my mother’s shame,
The insolence of dieticians, and the Spurns
That buying jeans for her entails,
When a brother can just settle for less
With a fit young Bodkin? Who could bear cake,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of waking up one day,
next to some Skeletor-looking female.
And so I’m caught, puzzled still,
'cause I'd rather bear a bootilicious cow
Than to bring home a broom with arms.
Thus booty does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the cake of Resolution
has got’sta be round, a full booty of course,
and I’ll just ignore her chunky thighs.

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