Come, fair lady to mine bed, we go,
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And verily sweet pleasures we shall know,
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Yet, where thy belly meets thy limb,
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I beseech thee give a trim,
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For thy bush doth overflow,
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Milady doth have a 70's muff,
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A 1470's muff hmmm,
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Zounds, it's as prickly as a Christmas wreath,
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Think, it might hide some baby birds, beneath,
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Pray, shave it off to make a coat,
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There are fur balls down mine throat,
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Short and curlies twixt my teeth,
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I sayeth not thy vagina is hirsute,
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But it looketh like thou hast buckwheat in a leg lock hmmm,
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But soft, what hair through yonder girdle grows,
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To be or not to be put in corn rows,
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Oh, it is beastly and unruly,
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And it smelleth of patchouli,
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And that offends my nose,
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I sayeth not thou art furry down there,
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But it doth resemble Fidel Castro eating a London broil hmmm.
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Pra la la la la la la la la la la la la
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Pra la la la la la la la la medieval bush
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Medieval Bush
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| Stephen Lynch |
