Come fair lady to mine bed we go And verily sweet pleasures 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 70s muff A 1470s muff, hmm? Zounds! It's as prickly as a Christmas wreath Think it might hide some baby birds beneath Pray shave it off to make a coat There are fur balls down mine throat Short and curlies twixt my teeth I sayeth not thy vagina is hirsute But it lookest like thou hast Buckwheat in a leg lock, hmm? But soft what hair through yonder girdle grows To be or not to be put in cornrows Oh it is beastly and unruly And it smelleth of patchouli And that offends my nose I sayeth not that thou art furry down there But it doth resemble Fidel Castro eating a London broil, hmm? Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la Medieval Bush