The Peasant

Ay me heard me hounds a soundin agayn
Looks it muddled at the castle yonder hilled
Ohhhh bloody hell Doris not agayn
And at tree in the morner
Bloody hell.
Bleedin alchemists sockin at me portal
Be gone with ye wizards
Get back to yer dungons,
Oh Mr. Kingly thrown yer out her diddie now?
Well get yer serry arses out me eyesites
Bloody hell Doris, not agayn!
Ear come the cunting criers.
What’s this be doing now his Kingling?
Ay the wordorbe donning is be done!
Oh bloody hell of curse it’s ner truble tall
I thunk it were a toosday not a werdnesderday.
Slinky me oh my apologetics to ye friend!
I shouldsya nonnit were the nite uh the duke council meetin
Doris! His kingshippsing needs a sheeps and two porkish loinings!
Bloody hell.
What is François smokin on high?
Best never be trustin barons up on that castled hilly.
Will thems never leaves that bleedin castle?
Back to beddybed me dainty Doris.