Philippe Le Zuikomane wrote:
> My foot is muddy, O my lord,
> And so's the handle of my sword
> I stand amid a ragged horde
> Before the door of your demesne
>
> The mossy stones in your great walls
> Can hardly deaden frighted calls
> Ringing down dark and sooty halls
> Today your serfs I do convene
>
> We do not hanker for your swine
> Nor do we come to steal your kine
> And we care little for your wine
> A writ we carry from your Queen
>
> Your liege and monarch now commands
> That you cede title to your lands
> The deed secur'd into my hands
> Abased, my Lord, and by all seen
>
> Tomorrow will be feasting day
> And your seneschal will obey
> And cater to us eve'ry way
> As will your daughter Katharine
>
> Among your hogs you shall now lie
> And crawl around in mud most fie
> Your wife will feed you in the sty
> That is from now on your desmesne
>
> ;-) Phil
Okay, what's that taken from?
keith whaley
> On 20:10, Andrew Fildes wrote:
>
>> Bend your knee and tug your forelock,
>> Wipe your feet on entry to my hall.
>> Don't claim to come from yeoman stock
>> You wretched, smelly little churl.
>>
>> My pigs may well accept your manners
>> But here they'll get you cut in quarters.
>> Can't fulfill your duties to the manor?
>> Then wash and offer up your daughters.
>>
>> Andrew Fildes
>
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