Medieval Bush

Come, fair lady to my bed, we go,

And verily sweet pleasures 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 70s muff,

A 1470s muff hmmm,

Zounds, its 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 hirsute,

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 offends 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