Face thou t'ward the window, and t'ward the wall.
As summer's dew drips down my manly bag
Behold thee as these three inch fools doth crawl,
Blow ye thy load, thou lily-livered slag!
As shorty dances I am put to mind,
This lass, doth she lust for the male meat?
Sayeth the landlord: calm ye, gentle kind.
It pleaseth me when ye twerk to the beat.
Return ye me my dub, fetch ye thy friend.
Dare ye stand idle whilst I drink my wine?
Still asking questions? 'Nother contender!
Thy cat against the slipp'ry pole to foin.
Bend thee over to the front, touch thy toe;
Thrust ye back thy wither'd pear, get thee low!