by Dafydd ap Gwilym

translated by Dannie Abse
I don't give a monkey-nut for their prissy talk.
Sunday - forgive me Lord - is an amiable time
to chase the chaste. After church of course.
But no unburdened smile or sweet kiss ever
from one starched lady of Llanbadarn
And me, so randy, I can hardly walk.

Give them boils, Lord, for none my needs assuage
- not even she whose nose seems like a chair
for spectacles! I ache. If only one, in luck,
roused me in the heather then Garwy himself
would stagger back envious and awestruck.
Lesbians, they must be. Give them pox, Lord, and age.

When parasolled, they left the church slow-paced
along the gravel pathway, past the grand
shadow of the yew, I winked, I whispered.
Nun-faced they frowned their strait-laced Never!
So I, as true a stud as Garwy stand
near graves, full of sperm. Oh what a waste! 

Published by Robin

I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.

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