Foul wight, my drawbridge is raised and sealed.
Scream and yell all you can, I'll never yield.
Your tawdry small rabble can vent their ire
As I stretch in comfort before my great fire.
The great stones of my hall were selected
To hold out the hordes of serfs demented,
So break shovels and hoes on the ancient oak
Of my gates, until in the moat you soak.
A note from the Queen? You petulant scum!
You may as well have a note from your mum!
Not one of the lords will long recognise
Female succession, it's simply not wise.
Thus she's had her day and though it's well thatched
Her head will not stay much longer attached
To the rest, like that hand that I never kissed.
'tis her son who will be with our crown soon blessed.
I'd rather roll round with the shit-slathered swine
Than deal once again with ill-mannered villein
Or treacherous serf. And my daughter, fow Kate?
A tiresome shrew, she'll seal your grim fate.
She's coming down now, from the battlement's edge
With some gallons of oil, as hot as my pledge
To grind you foul turds 'neath the heel of my boot.
The owl's cried your name with a withering hoot.
In a gibbet I'll display your decaying remains,
But your head on a spear at edge of desmense.
The new king is invited, he's a bit of a beast
And will roger the virgins at midsummer's feast.
Andrew Fildes
On 16/03/2007, at 12:57 PM, 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
>
> 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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