Alas for ye ye varlet, ye've jested at me song.
So rude and so ungraciously, ye've done me mighty wrong.
And now I shall unleash on ye a mighty minstrel's curse.
The punishment is terrible, and goes from bard to verse.
May the fighters at the tournaments lay on ye fast and thick.
May thy face be dirty from a mudhole deep and slick.
May the fleas infest thy codpiece, may ye scratch until your sore.
May the jokes the jester tell ye be the ones ye've heard before.
May the chilly winds of winter make ye shiver till ye shake.
May a draft blow out thy fire, may thy window bang and break.
May thy gate fall off its hinges and thy doorbell lose its chimes.
May ye live as says the chinaman in interesting times.
May thy hat fall in the river may the holes grow in thy socks.
May the mice invade thy kitchen and thy fields be full of rocks.
May thy fruit turn brown and moldy, may a wart grow on thy nose.
May the error in thy taxes be the one the audit shows.
May thy dogs not growl at burglars, thy tomcat cease to hunt.
May thy horse turn fat and lazy and thy pigs all cease to grunt.
May thy lady be contentious, may thy quarrels all be bead.
May thy lover never have ye, but your wife will think she had.
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