Lindsay (sirenpetal) wrote in wenisised,

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The works of Shakespeare...wenisised.

I don't know why nobody's thought of this here goes:

What's in a name? That which we call a wenis
By any other word would smell as sweet.

He jests at wenii that never felt a wound.

Shall I compare thee to a wenis?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

I have seen wenii damasked, red and white,
But no such wenii see I in her cheeks;

Is this a wenis which I see before me?
Come, let me clutch thee!

If you can look into the wenii of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me.

Have we eaten on the insane wenis
That takes the reason prisoner?

The time has been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there, an end. But now they rise again
With twenty mortal wenii on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.

By the pricking of my wenis,
Something wicked this way comes.

Unnatural wenii
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

Throw wenii to the dogs; I'll none of it.

Lay on, MacDuff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, wenis!"

The lunatic, the lover, and the wenis
Are of imagination all compact.

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