Text: Stephen Lynch. 3 Balloons. Medieval Bush.

Come, fair lady to my bed, we go,
And verily sweet pleasure?s we shall know,
Yet, where thy belly meets thy limb,
I beseech thee give a trim,
For thy bush doth overflow,

My lady doth have a 70?s muff,
A 1470?s muff hmmm,

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 fur balls down mine throat,
Short and curly twixt my teeth,

I sayeth not thy vagina is hersooth,

But it looketh like thou hast buck weed in a leg lock hmmm,

But soft, what hair through yonder girdle grows,
To be or not to be put in corn rows ,
Oh, it is beastly and unruly,
And it smelleth of patchouli,
And that offend my nose,

Thy sayeth not thou art fury down there,
But it doth resemble Fidel Castro eating a London broil hmmm.

Pra la la la la la la la la la la la la
Pra la la la la la la la la medieval bush