11 hours ago
Gracious maiestie, I hope you will forgiue these lines, dashed offe in excitement at the prospect of what I thinke will be our weddinge. I have been hid fourteene days in a village that owes its allegiance to your cosin Marie, and it is sweete to see that they loue your family soe.
No one knows my (x,y) so toe speake, a code that the Frenche use for location ha!ha! Except Sirre Francis W. who assurede me that you would like to wed and calle yourself Mrs Walter Raleighe. That you woulde want mee to be head on high stakes matters. It bringes me ioy, for my actions in Irelande and the New Worlde in teachinge the minions respect are bearing fruit.
Until we meete, a fyne poem from the world’s fynest and handsomest poete:
~ Johne Doe (my nom de plume)
O highness, will you fancie me?
I will not call you an ugliee
florid bummed fat baboone
like they do in all the pubbes
naminge lard and tallow tubbes
after you, dear maiestie.
Onlie whisper sweete nothinges
into your time worn ear,
slip large dia weddinge ringes,
proven to fitte a bear,
and call you wife rest of your life
seatede on a comfy chaire.
Kit’s been run through with a knife,
and that dastardly Shakepaire
is claiming my sonnettes for hisse,
addressed to ye, ladie faire
(for a white lie is not called a lie
by Saracen or Hindoo,
pagan Catholik bound to die,
e’en the scheming Jewe).
O highnesse, I hear men outside
call for mee by name,
and a goodly bitte of contryside
has lighted uppe in flames -
a bonfire to celebrate our loue
queene and king new made,
am I to be re-knighted? I see
one draws near with his blade!
No one knows my (x,y) so toe speake, a code that the Frenche use for location ha!ha! Except Sirre Francis W. who assurede me that you would like to wed and calle yourself Mrs Walter Raleighe. That you woulde want mee to be head on high stakes matters. It bringes me ioy, for my actions in Irelande and the New Worlde in teachinge the minions respect are bearing fruit.
Until we meete, a fyne poem from the world’s fynest and handsomest poete:
~ Johne Doe (my nom de plume)
O highness, will you fancie me?
I will not call you an ugliee
florid bummed fat baboone
like they do in all the pubbes
naminge lard and tallow tubbes
after you, dear maiestie.
Onlie whisper sweete nothinges
into your time worn ear,
slip large dia weddinge ringes,
proven to fitte a bear,
and call you wife rest of your life
seatede on a comfy chaire.
Kit’s been run through with a knife,
and that dastardly Shakepaire
is claiming my sonnettes for hisse,
addressed to ye, ladie faire
(for a white lie is not called a lie
by Saracen or Hindoo,
pagan Catholik bound to die,
e’en the scheming Jewe).
O highnesse, I hear men outside
call for mee by name,
and a goodly bitte of contryside
has lighted uppe in flames -
a bonfire to celebrate our loue
queene and king new made,
am I to be re-knighted? I see
one draws near with his blade!
