Tues-day is shrove with mutton and ryghte fatt.
Wonderfull merry-ment? Nay, deepest feares,
Fr the Ladye of Texyse speaketh at
Mee with Godly wrathe, callynge saddest teares.
With-out mine quest fr solitairie headd,
A saintlie offer, O, 'tis mine dutee!
The Devill cometh fr me, wretchydd deadd
who loseth. O, blacke woe; I know! Rudy!
Lord Mayor of York anew, I beseech
Thine aide fr th'import journie of morrowe!
A sword have I. The publick, it can reach,
Your Gown of Smiting + 1 to borrowe!
With sequins faire blindyng the poor-est foole,
Mine quest -- are not these fancie heeles coole?
Once in a dreame, we were damn hell ass kinges;
Or deuce queenes decked in finery to find.
O, swine, what sacrifyce a ryder bringes
When thy clothe I lift high, a headd in kinde,
Loppedd by the blade to roll as a wheele;
Prophesy filld, bus goeth rounde and rounde!
Dearest Ladye, I shant cop a feele
Up thy skirt, lyinge on Holy grounde,
'til, as high-lande kilts and London towne were,
Or factoree serfs, ower Naughtie unione doth Bee.
What of gyftes? This rottynge headd of a cur
Is all that lye on silvere plate fr thee.
Oh! pike yt, fr yon circus I shall joine
Fr there can slime as I earn some ryghte coine!
O market, bless thou, best muffins that be!
Blueberry for me, banan'nut for thee!