John, I have no idea how to enter the contest ( I'd like to), but here's an entry. It was fun.
The Poete’s Tale
A povre poete somdel stape in age
was whilom scribblyng in his narwe cottage
that neither heat nor cold could keep at bay.
The night was ice and colder was the day.
His shivered and he made a waymentynge
Louder, I woot, than creature lyvynge.
Now help me God, sith it is in thy might,
saith he, my bed is frozen as the night.
My wyf is buxom and is nought so old,
But saith no womman loves a bed of cold.
“What thyng is it that wommen moost desiren?
Pay up the bill; thy nekke-boon is iren!
Nay, if thou kanst nat warm me up anon,
Yet shal I yeve thee leve for to gon.”
Thus hath she gon to wikked London toun,
Leaving oure povre poete nought to doon.
And thus gan he to swive in lecherie,
To wenches brennyng and to avotrie.
At every tavern made he swich disport
And gadered hym a menee of his sort.
Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete.
He was the hyve and ful of hony sweete,
But writ no tale nor biographie,
Nor smale poem nor a historie.
For wyn drank he both whit and dauncing red.
Apoplexie shente him hir heed.
He dyed in Southwark in his warm pleasaunce,
Forgetful of the cold and his mischaunce.
The propre moral, as ye mought have rede:
Pay up youre heating or ye mought be dede.
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