(Hear ye, hear ye — tis I, Lord of this filthy plot… and all you scabby-handed peasants gon’ kneel.) Oi, who dare step to the Lord of this land? Your mum milketh goats with her bare left hand. Your boots so worn they could marry the mud, Your father a coward, his sword stained with cud. Your wench sent scrolls to my chamber last night, Beggin’ me whisper her name ‘til first light. Thy coin purse empty, thy pride even less, I shit finer cloth than the rags you possess. Kneel, peasants, kneel in disgrace, Kiss my boot, wipe that dirt off thy face. Thy bloodline weak, thy spirit’s gone sour, I piss in thy well at the noon witching hour. Your armor’s but tin, dented like swine, While my blade drinks wine from the throats I malign. Your men march crooked, like goats off a cliff, Each one breathes fear like a plague-ridden sniff. I take what I want, from thy fields to thy bed, Your queen calls me ‘Sire’ while you beg for bread. Your crops rot faster than your weak little lungs, I feast on thy pride — call it peasants’ crumbs. Kneel, peasants, kneel in disgrace, Kiss my boot, wipe that dirt off thy face. Thy bloodline weak, thy spirit’s gone sour, I piss in thy well at the noon witching hour. Raise not thy voice, lest I cut out thy tongue, And wear it like medal for battles I’ve won. From tavern to castle my name doth resound, Thy family tree roots in the shit underground. Your horse lame-legged, your banners moth-bit, Your sword so dull, it can’t pierce horse shit. My halls paved in gold from the rents ye can’t pay, While you pray to the sky that I perish one day. Your prayers fall like fleas from a sickly old hound, I piss on thy dreams just to water my ground. Thy life worth less than the rats in my keep, Even death won’t claim thee — too poor to reap. Kneel, peasants, kneel in disgrace, Kiss my boot, wipe that dirt off thy face. Thy bloodline weak, thy spirit’s gone sour, I piss in thy well at the noon witching hour. (May thy days be short, thy crops cursed, and may thy children resemble me.) Kneel.