Regime De Vivre
I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk about seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.
(I love this sonnet!)
There seems to be little bawdy verse that I know by established poets - even this, attributed to John Wilmot, Earl of Rocester, seems not to be written by him.
Do 'Spherians know any other famous bawdy verse like this, or is all the bawd from traditional verses like 'Friggin' in the Riggin' and 'The Good Ship Venus'? It may be that verses such as this are not anthologised for reasons of 'propriety'. I would be delighted to hear more.
Nigel
NB: Alicia - if this is the wrong board for discussion, please move the thread.
[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 20, 2002).]
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