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Stephen Lynch
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Medieval Bush
My fair lady to my bed we go
And very sweet pleasures we shall know
And where thy belly meets thy limb
I beseech thee give a trim
For thy bush thine overflow
Zounds, it's as prickly as a Christmas wreath
Think it may hide some baby birds beneath
Pray shave it off to make a coat
There are furballs down my throat
Short and curly twigs my teeth
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