Sunday, September 1, 2013

Lord Wentworth My Son

Oh where have you been, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And where have you been, my virtuous one?

Oh, father, I went to the deepest of woods,
And I saw what I saw, and I took what I could.

And what did you see, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And what did you see, my wandering one?

A thistledown tree, where the nightingale cried,
And beneath it a stag with a wound in its side.

And I saw a fair maiden with skin pale and fyne,
On a bed of wild heather, and bound with a vine.

Aye, bound with a vine, so I drew forth my blade,
And I cleaved well the vine, till I freed the poor maid.

And what did you do, Lord Wentworth my son?
And what did you do, my bravehearted one?

Oh, father, I tore off her long purple robe,
And I plied her sweet plumb with my cumbersome lobe.

And I bent her down low, and I gave her a ride,
And I glazed her with porridge all down her backside.

And I threw her fair legs way up to the sky,
And we fisted and felched til my flesh pipe went dry.

Yes, we diddled and doinked in various manners!
And my pizzle is sore, but her ass is much tanner.

In every crevace, and in every position,
We hung down the stinky in ways that ain't Christian.

Did she take you in mouth, Lord Wentworth my son?
Did she take you in mouth, my cavalier one?

Alas, no, she didn't, tho' I lay in her bed.
For father, I searched, but I ne'er found her head.

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