The King's Friend

or The Hereditary Grand Arse-hole-Teazer of Mugwumpshitstein.

How's this for style and matter?

Messenger.

     My liege, I prithee, list ye of your grace

     Sir Codling wallows in his grievous gore

     Pierced by the envious dagger of a knave

     Adjusted ill to just a just knight.

King.

     How now, forsooth! Od's bodikins and bubs

     I wot the saucy malapart got scathe

     How wast 'twas twisted, wastrel? Tossed he not

     The strumpet-cycle on his bloody spear?

Messenger.

     God's guts, my liege, thou sayest sooth. He took

     His amorous toothpick from its skinny sheath

     And spurted him with such a creamy spurt

     (ForeGod I thought the kine were come to milk!)

     Full in the mangy belly of the cur

     And blew him to green bugg—

King.

     (enter Queen with a carrot up her arse)

Queen.

     Liege lord, dear partner of my royal bed

     I must—

King.

     Pull out my turtle-toner then!

Exit Messenger with the delicacy and refinement of his noble nature, and the Q comes violently.

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