The Archer's Tale
by David Humphreys
(Inspired by Jazzer's overdose in The Bull)
In
Ambridge whylom a taverne there was
Wherein a sort of rogues abode, allas
And gaven alle themselves to ribaudrye
And eke to riotous debaucherye
With foule accord of drumslade and gitttern,
And manicordes, and voyse, as ye schal lerne
To all thys noyse of musicke thay were bent
To make a rocke band was hir entente
For Sathanus, that hath brought Eve to shame
Had set hir hertes on lucre and on fame.
The inne by name ‘Ye Bull’ ycleped was
The hoost was height Sid Perkes, by the mass
And lady Joeleen was his paramour .
Ful goodly was the cheer and rich the store
Of goode ale and strong and, trouth to telle
Ful many a bag of crispes were to selle
And peanuttes in ye oven long yroost
In very trouth Sid was a myrie hoost!
But, lordings, now perforce I must relate
A sorgeful chaunce, for swich a wofull fate
Befil the revellers, by goddes hande
That I may scarce it telle, for tho the bande
Ful dredful was, mistuned and right drere
How piteous was hir fate, ye nowe shall heere .
The noyse of musicke was by Ed ymade
And Fallon eke, sche that the gittern played .
One mynstrell Jazzer cleped was besyde
A riotous wight he was, and full with pryde
By nationalitee he was a Pict .
Ful xxx markes from tyll he hath ynicked!
He geven was to substances and pilles
Which wroght him wo and broght him many ills
For Galen, that was cynning in his kynde
Ytaught hath that ye homours of man’s mynd
By swich misuse ful sore distempered be.
And worketh sowle’s destructioun, pardye!
On Ketamine this Jazzer toke delite
And toke thereof gret store, sad to endite.
Uppon a night, when Perks was goon away
The mynstrells alle were gathered to pleye
For thay wold maken melodye that day
And Jazzer, he that with fals pryde was curst
Retired unto the privee for a burst.
O vanitee! O folie! O replecioun!
That man hath broght to wo and to perdicioun.
For Jazzer of this draught had dronke too deepe
And fil doun sodeynly as if in slepe
Uppon the grounde, and colde noght be awoke
What that myn hooste cam home, sore wrath he spoke.
But Jazzer brethed noght, and lay as still
As any dronkard who hath had his fill.
So Jazzer to ye lazar house is goon
And so this melancholye tale is doon.
For nowe tis tyme to close my tale, I rekke
And runne this garbage through ye spelle-check.
More parodies
- from Agatha Christie to Damon Runyon
