Sample: Geoffrey Chaucer’s Stinking Bishop’s Tart
As ic was cymende up Pippen Hill,
Pippen Hill was dirty.
There ic met a fetid whore
And she dropt me a curtsey.
Said ic, “Oh Whore, ðú stinc so danklye,
Blessings fall upon ðú!
If ic had healf a crown todaeg,
Ic’d spende it gladly on ðú.
“Ic’d wash your nosesthirls, pierce your bloat,
Ic’d dab your froth a foamin’.
Your purplish skin ic’d purge o’ gas
And the rotty smell o’ urine.”
Said she, “Oh, bless ðú, man of God!”
As blowflies lit nearby.
The grasses died where’er she walked.
Would hire skin blister by and by?
The whore she laughed so merrily
And chewed a washed-rind cheese.
Said she, “I’ve not the plague ðú fear.
I’ve cheese to make ðú wheeze.
“I’ve cheese to make ðú gag and moane,
To make ðú itche, to make ðú crye.
It’s cheese as foule as rigor mortis.
But it makes a tastye pie.”
“It’s Stinking Bishop’s Cheese, ic see!”
Cried ic, “A nyce and softe one?”
“Aye, from Gloucestershire,” said she.
“Come slipe it in my oven.”
And so she winked and made a tart
All on a sumorhát’s day.
And then that tart she stole my heoarte
And purse when first wé lay.
Inside our fullwearm comfye beds
Both cheese and ic were fine.
Cheese pie’s in the oven; her fee ‘twas sumpin’!
And now wé’ll súpan some wine, some wine.
And now wé’ll súpan some wine.
* * * *
This is from NIETZSCHE’S ANGEL FOOD CAKE: And Other “Recipes” for the Intellectually Famished, a gift book available in hardcover, paperback, and Kindle.