CHANNELING CHAUCER

The Lodger’s Tale

Who doth brake wynde wan this hutt is shut tighte,
Wan the aire doth not move on this warme humid night?
Ye made no sounde on your giving of vente,
Lett loose onn the slye what twas not heaven scent.
Wat manner of victuals compos’d your repast,
Ande gavve ye the gravest of cases of gas
Ande teared uppe our eyes upon fleeing your asse?
Could ye notte havve stept outsyde, on to the fen
Orr, mayhap, preferred too sleep in a tent?
Ach! Mine eyes doth burn anew, the bloke hath farted againe!
———————-
A Drunkard’s Rappe
Oh, Mother Meade, what didde I do in your name?
Didde I bring unto mye selfe and mye familee, great shame?
Orr, bye chance, were all as potted as me?
Deff as stones, blynde as batts, as eagre to disturb the peace?
Were all besotted, loose of lippe, and open-hearted?
Wan I tolde the wife I was going to help a frend,
Her eyes did rolle as she sayed I knoe howe thiss ends
You, brotte home inn a waggon,
A’cuddlin your flagon like some pagan whore
And a promise of never again, slurred words abowte making amends
Now you’re pied as a piper, delidver’d like freight once morre. This is thee ende!
I should say darling please, while ime onn my knees,
Butte my gutte churns, and yearns to expresse its owne ideas.
Ande this paine inn my pate maye never cease.
Peece outte
{drop quill}

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