I haven't changed my underpants today
I haven't washed my socks since last weekend
I recently did tear my skirts to shreds
But now

                No lewdness, please!

                                      I'll wash my face
I'll spill a bowl of apple-juice, and soon
There'll grow from each my earlobes plenteous fruit
And e'en from other orifex ...

                                      Be still!
Exterminate your tongue's rough verbiage
And let me have my story

                                       ...there might come
An issue of brown Worcester sauce! Sage brew
Of make unknown to those whose only loves
Were pickled in some pizza-frumenty
Such as the sage Italian master-cook
Copernicus was wont of yore to fry.
O! Fat in the pan! O, joyous lard and garlic!

Sweet maid! Thy bosom clenched by torture dire
'Twixt right and left resides upon my own
And mine on thine! This shallow cramp'd repose
Shall not more suit th'entombing of the day-
Butantes who lustre at the balls or foam
At mouths. In thine, no grander soul than this
I would equivocate ...

                           But not to me!
Thy quainted mistress, born to suck thee dry
And powder thee for sumptuous pudding-feasts
Beyond the cares of worldish willing thugs.
O, this were access of my joy's increase
To spurn the youthful merriments of lust
And crave the more mature enjoyment, thus.

What! Is love, of which the poets tell
Thus manifested in two balding fools
Procrastinated i'th'death of passion's pulse
As when the warbler, in the reeking sedge
Doth leap from flimsy reed to th'pouring skies
To sing; as when the minstrels deftly play
Abune the happy herbiage of harps
As when ...

                Good sir, what seek you in these parts?

(pointing to Lillian) The same as you in those, I greatly doubt,
Though you have found it, so it seems, ere I
Could even raise my hat in cold salute
To whom – nay, what – I see before me now.
To cut my discourse short: my broom I seek,
Which some wight sundered from me yesterweek.

What sticks shall stick without the brush and broom!
No mops are here, no besoms mar my path
Get hence, while I enjoy this maiden's charms
Which hourly wane ...

                           Ud's crab, how dare you thus
Abuse me, dearest Polo, whom I love
More than the night the day, the sun the earth
The rain the sea, or dog the fearful cat
Which climbs the sturdy oak – as when the fitchew
Fits his codpiece wrongly, and eschews
All human garb ...

Come now, my love, I prithee
Sate your lust. You, sir, go! Begone!
While I this maid do comfort in my arms.

Sir, I do but seek my broom; but if
You'll tell me where to find it, I shall go
Quite sated though albeit not by lust
But by foreknowledge of the future past
To know the way to journeys' end at last.