Barrow Fields i would ask, almost insist, on treating you kind and fair

lol i was never good at poetry in shakespearean class and i'm not good at poetry now

If the look of devastation writhing upon his mug was any indication, the kettleblack female could only infer that her lousy quatrain had successfully speared his heart -- she was no maestro, and the composition of her was more of a consonantal clash than the vowel-chime his pipes produced. He, on the other hand, was entitled to the handle sonnet virtuoso; his comprehensive word-stock may have lent him an unfair advantage over the girl. Maybe they'd be on more level ground if this was a yo-mama rap battle –– her experience as a participant in poetry slams was unfortunately limited to "never."

Nonetheless his ensanguined ego built her up and a complacent smirk took to its routine post on her lips, chin jutted with an utmost air of braggadocio. She thought, if only the injury to his feelings manifested a physical mark in the same way the impact of her knuckle sandwich had rattled his brainbox and left an inflamed nostril – a site as leaky as an unstaunched wench and twice as scorned. She could look upon it and jeer.

Head aloft with ears standing to attention -- ready to confiscate his rejoining ode -- she pranced a tight circuit around him, bottlebrush tail flying like a streamer in a stiff wind. 

Tipping his nickel muzzle on high, the boy keened, he screeched, and left a death toll of an indeterminable number deep within the forest around them. If her eardrums, newly spectral, stricken with tinnitus unaccounted for before his moaning dirge, had not been tone-deaf foregoing his song, they certainly were now as they rang shrilly. 

Lusca peeled from him the same moment he hippety-hopped away from her, ending his joyful hymn. Suddenly dropping to a play-bow, her tail drooped against her scrawny haunches -- a competitive gleam came to her eye. 

"Ye plunder is weak and your loot caput-y,
I know what you're after, the best treasure of all,
x-marks the spot: my callipygian booty!"

No consideration taken of iambic pentameter. None. She winked one eye shut, giving her best impression of a swash-buckling buccaneer she could muster, swanggggin' her rump knowing full well it would get him in a tizzy. 

Then suddenly, standing up straight, as if struck by revelation (this was, however, something she had meant to tell him earlier prior to his infraction of personal space and consequent heinous crime of pasting his mouth-dongle to her face like a barnacle sticks to substrate), her voice lowered ominously.

"Ohhh, how could have I neglected to mention,
we have encountered an eensy-teensy problem --
the behavior of pathogens, my argent gentian,

You see, you may yet develop disease of the skin,
Perhaps leprosy, or gigantism, who knows, 
we may even start to see a pectoral fin...

She eased closer to him.

Give it an hour, maybe two, mine friend,
your moshpig could resurrect to bite you --
food-borne illness takes time to set in."