Every night at the manse of Sir Neville/ in their bedroom, a riotous revel !/ Their gymnastical feats/ sometimes shredded the sheets/ and the edge of the mattress they’d bevel…
In real life, I gesture and grunt/ This archaic blather? A front !/ Though Shakespeare’s the model/ my maundering twaddle/ is merely a cheap, tawdry stunt.
It’s a source of discomfort (nay, pain)/ to observe that her clothing, while plain/ is less plain than she/ is,(unfortunately)/and it just goes against my grain.
The lady who stole chapeaux/ from under the management’s “neaux”/ with Satan now dwells/ having joined “hell’s belles”/ for she died quite some time ageaux.
Every night at the manse of Sir Neville/ in their bedroom, a riotous revel !/ Their gymnastical feats/ sometimes shredded the sheets/ and the edge of the mattress they’d bevel…