Stephen Robins17 May 2007

But, soft! what roar from yonder bottom breaks?
'Tis the feast of thy curried buns,
Arise, sweet bun, kill the envious prune,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That bun made her fart far more than ye.
Be not her maid, since the prune is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do consume it; cast it off
It is my Bun, O, it is my Bun!
O, that what a bun she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?
My blood with buns courses; I will chance it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she wreeks.
Two of the fairest buns in all the heaven.