By Shawn
I spy thy coach; it driveth ’round the town,
And with thee is a wench belov’d by me—
Alack! Hot tears cannot my sorrows drown.
That shit’s messed up, and so I say, fie thee.
True, thou dost me exceed in finery.
Yea, I confess my change-purse holds no coins.
But had I jewels and men in livery,
I’d still have access to thy lady’s loins.
To think what silken shawls and comely blouses
I purchased for that most ill-favored sow!
God grant my prayers, a plague on both your houses—
Forsooth, I really hate thy ass right now.
I can’t believe that she’d do this to me.
I’m like, fie thee, and also fie on she.
Into the Friar 