Shall I compare thee to a Michael Bay?
Thou art more lovely than a thousand exploding helicopters,
Your hair cascades down your shoulders with more grace than the blades of those same helicopters as they erupt rapidly out towards the audience,
who respond emitting appreciative oohs and aahs or merely by adjusting their bulky 3D frames over their bulkier thick-rimmed ones and sigh,
opining to no one in particular that Optimus Prime just isn’t what he used to be,
that he used to stand for something more pure than product placements: overpriced children’s toys stamped out in foreign factories.
But you, dearest,
as you sip your Mountain Dew Code Red Zero out of a Starbucks mug,
your hair is above all such pseudo intellectual commentary,
it flashes its sheen as though a team of bepimpled Pixar employees tediously rendered it frame by precious frame on a network of supercomputers,
