The toll bridge was closed, south of the town. My kinsmen were barred, even though I wore a crown. When I asked for a reason, we were told to be submit. T'was on the order of the bishop, of Cicestransis.
Extremely vexed were we, at this outrages affront. It crossed my mind the bishop, was probably a cunt. We rallied our men from pillaging, and plowing up the farms. Blast the trumpets loudly, a call to their arms
Bash the bishop, in his head. Bash, bash, until he's dead
We stormed to the cathedral, but he was not to be found. A nun we spared the truncheon, claimed he'd gone to ground. The earthly smell around us, confirmed these words as true. I swore I'd throttle his little neck, until his mitre be blue
We chased him to his cloisters, where we found the host had fled, leaving sixteen strappled strumpets, weeping in his bed. The choir boy complained, about the "Pagan things" he'd done. We chased into the night, to finish what we'd begun
Bash the bishop, in his head. Bash, bash, until he's dead
Bash! Smash! Crash! Dash! Bash! Smash! Crash!
Saddle up!
We finally caught the miscreant, by following the stench. He'd been living north of Saddlescoombe, which a rather buxom wench. We pled for him, to take his punishment like a man, but instead he fled to Fulhingm sulken tears into his hand
Bash bash bash! Bash bash bash! Until he's deadTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
