Whenas we left the Tabard, then we found
A strapping ladette, blottoe on ye ground.
The squyer woke her, and with courtesie
Suggested she might join our compagnie,
And so came she upon our pylgrymage,
Yet her religioun was hard to gauge,
Save that we heard her mutter 'Oh sweet Jesus'
Syn that there were namo Bacardi Breezers.
The millere much admired this sturdy wench,
Although hir langage made the shipman blench,
And ye Good Wife of Bath cried out 'That's rude'
When reading wordes on hir rumpe tattooed.
Indeed her manners were not over-nice.
The persoun therefor yeft hir good advice.
He tolled her, swearing is nor big nor clevvere.
To which the wench replied but with 'Whatevvere.'
|