Shakespeare's apparent homily diverts the Thames ferry-men
Lay thee at my rump, thou contumelious sot
Thou periphrast, thou ignominious blot!
Thy conduct ill befits the mangiest cur
Thy quiant aroma rivals foetid myrrh
That you have wronged me, none here durst gainsay
If I deserved it, God will let me pray
For ghostly guidance; till that blessed hour
I seethe, unpaid by sempiternal power
Thou whoreson knave, thou wizened jackanapes
Thou pederast, thou sampler of sour grapes!
The world shall know thy treachery betimes
And all shall heap derision on thy crimes
Thy course lies ever down into the Pit
Between those braziers, arguably lit
Where Satan too will shrink from thy vile stench
and every demon in disgust shall blench
May all thy kinfolk perish with the pox
Let apoplexy stiffen both your socks!
May leeches drain the blood from that vile face
Whose mien betokens desolate disgrace
May that foul hovel you call home catch fire
And all who dwell there perish on the pyre
.......... But if, by chance, the debt is recent paid
Then buy yourself a glass of Lucozade.
| Contributors: | TG, R+L, Roland, P. |
| Poem finished: | 3rd October 1998. |