Stephen Lynch Follow

Come, fair lady to my bed, we go,
And verily sweet pleasure's 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 70's muff,
A 1470's muff hmmm,

Zounds, it's as prickly as a Christmas wreath,
Think, it may hide some baby birds, beneath,
Pray, shave it off to make a coat,
There are fur balls down mine throat,
Short and curly twixt my teeth,

I sayeth not thy vagina is hersooth,
But it looketh like thou hast buck weed in a leg lock 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 offend my nose,

Thy 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