Ham Lion thinks on

Fo' shizzle.  Deep introspection run through the Gizoogle Textilizer.

To be, or not ta be: dat is tha question:
Whether 'tis nobla up in tha mind ta suffer
Da slings n' arrowz of outrageous fortune,
Or ta take arms against a sea of shits,
And by opposin end them, biatch? To die: ta chill;
No more; n' by a chill ta say we end
Da heart-ache n' tha thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a cold-ass lil consummation
Devoutly ta be wish'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! To die, ta chill;
To chill: perchizzle ta dream: ay, there be a tha rub;
For up in dat chill of dirtnap what tha fuck trips may come
When our crazy asses have shuffled off dis mortal coil,
Must give our asses pause: there be a tha respect
That make calamitizzle of so long game;
For whoz ass would bear tha whips n' scornz of time,
Da oppressorz wrong, tha proud as a muthafucka manz contumely,
Da pangz of despised love, tha lawz delay,
Da insolence of crib n' tha spurns
That patient merit of tha unworthy takes,
When dat schmoooove muthafucka his dirty ass might his on tha fuckin' down-low make
With a funky-ass bare bodkin, biatch? whoz ass would fardels bear,
To grunt n' sweat under a weary game,
But dat tha dread of suttin' afta dirtnap,
Da undiscover'd ghetto from whose bourn
No travella returns, puzzlez tha will
And make our asses rather bear dem ills our crazy asses have
Than fly ta others dat we know not of?
Thus conscience do make cowardz of our asses all;
And thus tha natizzle hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er wit tha pale cast of thought,
And enterprisez of pimped out pith n' moment
With dis regard they currents turn awry,
And lose tha name of action. I ain't talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. - Soft you now!
Da fair Ophelia! Nymph, up in thy orisons
Be all mah sins remember'd.