Medieval Bush

Come, fair lady, to mine bed we go,
And verily sweet pleasures we shall know,
Yet, where thy belly meets thy limb,
I beseech thee, give a trim,
For thy bush doth overflow.

My lady doth have a 70s muff,
A 1470s muff, hmm!

Zounds, it’s as prickly as a Christmas wreath,
Think it might hide some baby birds beneath,
Pray shave it off to make a coat,
There are furballs down mine throat,
Short and curly twigs my teeth.

I sayeth not thy vagina is hersooth,
But it looketh like thou hast Buckwheat in a leglock, hmmm?

But soft, what hair through yonder girdle grows,
To be or not to be put in corn rows,
Oh, it is beastly and unruly,
And it smelleth of patchouli,
And that offends my nose,

I sayeth not thou art fury down there,
But it doth resemble Fidel Castro eating a London broil hmmm.

Pra la la la la la la la la la la la la
Pra la la la la la la la la medieval bush