It seems to me that Shakespeare missed a trick.
He might prophetically have writ about
another age of man, the Yoga Creep,
between his Justice and his Pantaloon,
whose shrivelled member, kept from its repose,
held upright by those blue remembered pills,
twitches in the presence of young hippie chicks.
I see right through you, Sleaze. You’re nothing but
a goat who gulls impressionable youth,
an oniony old sage with borrowed cloak.
(2) Mr Luvvertory on Selling Ketamine. Act 1 Scene i
It’s true. Powder of Equus Tranquillus,
which is to say, that wondrous ketamine,
which makes one snorting it think he’s a worm,
or else an elongated pasta strand.
A true alchemic catalyst is k
makes of the meanest bedsit sumptuous halls,
transmutes the vilest, most disgusting knave
unto the choicest ponce that ever graced the court;
although it’s ultimately bladder-wrack,
causing its hierophants to go around with bags.
A vertically integrated biz:
I cook it up myself in pots and pans.
(3) Slime on Selling Cocaine. Act 1 Scene i
Betimes, I dabbled in an allied trade,
a merchant in Talcum of Medellin, I was,
importing in swallowed prophylacticals
that snuff, for which fine gentlefolk
betaking themselves unto the privy room,
upon the cistern thereof chop it out in lines
and by it most subtly are energised,
which their companions do remark upon
when they resume their wonted dinner seats,
and overbear all others with their rant.