Plowman of his own field of
Gray; recondite words his
Sword for the prey. His lustful
pen makes a certain Venus stray.
With her deliquesced bosom, I fear
He might play.
O poet! In ink your weapon
Dip you may, in vengeance
I dip mine. Bleed her purple,
Or a foul word say; I'll drag
A poet like ye, for the
Epitaph for ye own shrine.
O poet! The tocsin of ye death,
Is loudly rung. Your doll is ma
Lady, beware poet, beware.
Scratch her an inch, the
Maple on ye flagitious field
Will bear ye body; neatly hung.
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