Classic Poem

I' th' Isle of Britaine long since famous growne
For breeding the best cunts in Christendome,
There reigns and oh long may hee reigne and thrive
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no Ambition mooves, to gett Renowne
Like the french Foole who wanders up and downe
Starving his People, hazarding his Crowne.
Peace is his Aime, his Gentlenesse is such
And Love, he loves, for he loves fucking much.
Nor are his high Desires above his Strength,
His Sceptter and his Prick are of a Length,
And she may sway the one, who plays with th'other
And make him little wiser than his Brother.
Restlesse he roalles about from Whore to Whore
A merry Monarch, scandalous and poor.
Poor Prince thy Prick like thy Buffoons at Court
Will governe thee because it makes thee sportt.
'Tis sure the swaucyest that e're did swive
The proudest peremtoriest Prick alive.
Though Safety, Law, Religion, Life lay on't,
'Twould breake through all to make its way to Cunt.
To Carwell the most Deare of all his deares
The best Reliefe of his declining yeares
Offt hee bewayles his fortunes and her fate
To love so well and be belov'd so late.
For though in her he setles well his Tarse
Yett his dull graceless Ballocks hang an arse.
This you'd beleive had I butt Tyme to tell you
The Paynes itt Cost the poor laborious Nelly
Whilst shee imployes, hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs
E're shee can raise the Member she enjoys —
I hate all Monarchs, and the Thrones they sit on
From the Hector of France to the Culley of Britaine.