Falstaff in the Big Apple, Mid-July
These naked legs and arms so writ upon--
you'd say the painters were in want of canvas
and that these bitch wolves were a moving
easel, sporting dragons and their open-arse,
and such a scurvy, bosomy ebullience
for all to let their eyeballs feast on till the lust
swells like a bursting boil to steep the brain.
And steam and fire erupting from the street!
I sped poor Bardolf for a capon and
some sack-I fear a steamy hole has oped.
And Jack, poor Jack, lost like a swag-bellied malt
horse and me dodging all these steel-eared
vipers and nose-ringed nabobs of the night.
God's Blood! Give me a purse to get my fancy
back to good thievery away from these
witches of the oily calf and stapled tongue.
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