The Pirate’s Prologue
The Hoost pulled him-seluen from the dyk at oones,
“That laste tale has mad me feele liche a dunce.
I wil no langer lete Wes Craven spynne,
A tale that wil chesun me to spewe a-gen!”
He stod up to hop bak on his whyte hors
And ginnen ryding bak onto the corse.
“So far we hauen hurde a tale of fere heer,
As wel as an unusual tale of care there.
We hauen euen hurde from the ninja guy,
Can oon not tell of soum fun lest I die?”
Just then a pirate apered from the croude,
And sliped a hand insyde the stripper’s goune.
“Aye matey, I’ve got the tale for you frend,
For you sceold rowl with lahter by the ende.
Nif for that sangwine-haired gurl over there
Who just syngs and huppes missen a care.”
Mynd you that this is a pirate for real,
Not like the oon’s that Walt Disney did stele.
His outlook on sex is quite deranged,
Perhaps bi-cause his trouser worm was quite under-changed.
If you are a fan of a fairye tale
Then you sceolde rede what Lance Bass has to tell.
The Pirate’s Tale
Before I gennin, perhaps I sceold say
That this is a tale I clergial not today.
It was tolde me by manye folks crying
Thinching that it wold skerren them from dieing.
I won’t go innen all of that ryght now
To tell tales of such I’ll Dick Cheney allow.
This story takes stede in the olde
Where whyte as snaw is euerich syngle child.
They all tell of a gret pryns named Whale,
Hence that smalle nacioun where I beye my ale.
It is sede that his middel name was Ova,
And I am unsure who came up with Ova.
And as we knowe his last name was Pantsdragon.
Whale Ova Pantsdragon had gyrles gaggin’.
Whale had a gunger broder named Arthur,
Who coold luke at the gyrles but go no farther.
The broders competed in everything,
Arthur was better lettruring, Whale at flirting.
Neither were verrey spedful with a swerde,
Arthur wolde bi-com rightely bored.
The thruste that concerned Whale wasn’t in combat,
He wolde see a mayden and just want to hit that!
If it mun be sede, Whale is more liknen me,
And Spock over here is Arthur, you’ll see.
Onne a sonney May day, a gyrl apeers,
So venust she is immune to leers.
The chavyls of bothe boys drop harde chesuning a twinge,
Whale says, “This is whi all my girlfriends cringe.”
They bothe falle for the duere sweote Guinevere,
And they compete more than ought here.
She apeered while they were telinge medlynge,
Sodeynly sumthyng in their pants was bitynge.
Eche of them slod their swerdes umbe their fettle,
To couren the extended frount pece of felte.
She giggles at the sighte that she caused,
Venust like hers sceold be agenst the laws.
“These boys are siche fun, ful of admodnesse.
Not to mengen how well they fill their pants!”
One niht, after a walke in her gardin
She hurde a bobbe on her dore that was ardent.
In the doorway was a schrouded man,
But she coold see the roial seel on his hand.
He grabbed her by the waste and kysse her nekke
So softley that she returned with a peck.
Her goun began to loosen, hands on her lace,
So engrossed in deyntee, she looked at his face.
{This portion of the manuscript has been lost or destroyed. We apologize to the reader for the inconvenience.}
The castel was immersed in blase and arrows,
The possibility of the kuyng’s ascapie was narwe.
The resuns for this war is not important,
At leste according to my enformants.
At the funeral, the next kyng woold ryse.
The towne mused, “Which oon of these guys?”
There was a swerde that has ben stuk in a stoon,
The boy that takes it from the burien is kyng al-lone.
Bothe boys plyghted and plyghted, but the spire was still,
Their Guinevere luke on with a thrill.
All lefte the site with teres in their eyes,
Guinevere with the same doun her thighs.
She paced bak and forth in her elenge roum
When sodeynly she heers a thunderus Boom!
“What coold creat siche a knap as this oon?
Has George Bush broght his sowdyers for more fun?”
She swung open the door to fynd Arthur,
With a complex engyn upon which is the swerde,
Still binne the stoon, and Arthur bare,
Effnen this heuy swerde stopped not his flare.
The swerde is stallit beside their mariage bedde,
Wher manye Guinevere nyght tears are sched.
One dawn she screemed aloud and grasped the swerde,
Pulling it fram the stoon, their fuchure assured.
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