Poem: A-Cunting We Shall Gae

This poem I did not write; rather, I discovered it amidst my family's archives.  It was written by my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Ignatius Loyola Holmes, in the year 1227, somewhere in Scotland.  As you can see, it is written in the Anglo-High-Middle-Germanic-Descending-Derivative dialect, but I'm certain you can follow along.

A-Cunting We Shall Gae

O, will ye gae a-cunting, lad,

Along the cuntly shore?

For cunting have I ganged the dae,

I cannae cunt nae more.

But take ye up thy nonad rood

And beat yon quim bush nigh,

And plunge thy mandy potinkins deep

Till doon they cuntly lie.

Till doon they cuntly lie, me lad,

With great and fulsome cream,

For cunting is as cunting does,

Whate’re that cunting means.

But if a maid thou lovest,

Piss thyself nae to her face.

Piss not the shower golden-hued

That reeks of great disgrace.

What’s more, it burns thine eyes so well,

A fire a-hot as sin.

I know, for once I blew a yak.

(I’ll not do that again.)

And let us not e’er speak of Sanchez,

Dirty ‘neath the nose.

Why any man would smirch one so

I’m sure I’ll ne’er know.

And ne’er go a-gerbelin’, son,

What’s that shite all about.

If any maid requires that,

Ya slip rod stewart out.

There’s some sick and twisty perverts ‘bout,

And that you’ll learn ‘ere long.

So wrap that shite in lambskin, else

The plague will eat your dong.