Bend your knee and tug your forelock,
Wipe your feet on entry to my hall.
Don't claim to come from yeoman stock
You wretched, smelly little churl.
My pigs may well accept your manners
But here they'll get you cut in quarters.
Can't fulfill your duties to the manor?
Then wash and offer up your daughters.
Andrew Fildes
On 15/03/2007, at 6:25 PM, Philippe Le Zuikomane wrote:
>
> If I could O so humbly
> Submit to you, my Masters,
> That though I'm mighty sorry
> About the roving trotters
> To chase 'em I'm hard put --
> Since you cut off my foot
>
> Phil
>
>
> On 09:24, Andrew Fildes wrote:
>
>> I suspect you owe us at least two days work per week on the desmense.
>> Otherwise you can get your damn pigs off the common.
>
>
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