Beneath his nose,
The cunnig maid passeth,
The scent of belle chose,
Upon her finger.
Made wild with desire,
The squire doth linger,
Her queynte perfume,
Fueling his fire.
With his own fingers,
Her purse doth he grab,
But the cunnig cunte knoweth,
T'is her quim that grabs him.
In her queynte vise,
She empties HIS purse,
The price of his vice,
The sum of her device.
