Half a croissant, on a plate, with a sign in front of it saying '50c'
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A Baker of London Towne

A tale of the maeking of true luvve thru the buildynge of an conntraption mechanik
  (+27, -4)(+27, -4)(+27, -4)
(+27, -4)
  [vote for,

In fifteene hundred and fortie and nine
T’was the eve of the day of Saint Valentyne
Nowe as every man muft, when younge I had learn’d
If neglectfull in luvve one will surely be spurn’d
But my hedde it had wander’d and harte had forgotte
For my true luvve I had not prepar’d but one jotte
So on bended knee to my Lord I beseech’d
Maye I tooken the daye for to fynd her a gyft

My Lord he shewed mercie and lift’d my thrall
For he knew of my true luvve and feared for my balles
Sed he: “Mayke itte a gyft that is differ’nt and newe
If ye wish that she wyden her legges for yew.”
Thanne as I was leeving I sharpen’d my mynd
For devysing a gyfte both novel and kynde
It struke me like litening hurled from above
I woulde build a devyce for the wynninge of luvve

Nexte I gan to my frend named Thomas the Smyth
And I asked him to wright me from coppre and griste
Ten idols of cupid affiring his bow
That woulde represent movement whan pleyced in a row
He forg’d them and quench’d them and set them with zeal
Thanne he hung them from hookes from upon a small wheel
On toppe of the wheel a small wind mille bestow’d
That woulde turn all the cupids whan blown from below

After the mettal I need’d some glasse
So I gan to a physic with skills unsurpass’d
I gived him wun crown and he mak me a lense
A magik devyce that caus’d strait light to bende
In middle of cherubs I set me a tallow
With lense out in front for to focuss the shadew
Thanne I thanked him most gladly any went on my waye
To see ye dark master of straynge alchymie

The alchymiste asked me what potion I wysht
To turn men into frogges or wymmin to fish?
Nay! Nay! I implored, it is luvve that I need
The one that I woo muft have eyes but for me
So he groonde up his chymicals into a duste
Transfigured their humors to mak them cause luste
He plac’d all this pooder in smale wooden box
With attar of roses to ward off the pox

My luvve she did visit the next eventyde
My machine was prepar’d with a candel inside
The pooder was burning above of the flame
The aroma so heady to drive us insayne
The heat from the flame it did rise thro the mille
Turning the wheel and the cupids until
The shadwe now focussed before her and I
Seem’d to draw back his bow and his arrow let fly
My luvve was o’ercomme and was lusty beside
Betwixt the linen were we both satisfied

We now have a shoppe in which is present’d
All maner of thyngs that we have invent’d
Spheric-on orreries, trousers for bats
Brickes made of bredde and mechanikle hattes
Automaton clockes which are driv’n by mices
Sneezing machines and other devices
The moral of this must be easy to see
Happiness finds us through gadgeteree

wagster, Feb 12 2006

Geoffrey Chaucer - Nun's Priest's Tale http://www.readprin...70/Geoffrey-Chaucer
[Dub, Feb 12 2006]


       Nice. A bun for your effort.
MikeOxbig, Feb 12 2006

po, Feb 12 2006

       I say, jolly good show, eh wot!
muche pastrie fore yon efort!
neutrinos_shadow, Feb 12 2006

       coilons * [link]
Dub, Feb 12 2006


       Bravo, bravo! I was amazed to be able to read it easily whilst still admiring the tasteful and funny 'old english' - a sure testament to your skills as a writer. And the story was good too!
dbmag9, Feb 12 2006

       Much fanfare of crumpets! <-- Hee hee!
DesertFox, Feb 12 2006

       (+) She's a very very lucky woman [wagster]!
ConsulFlaminicus, Feb 13 2006

       A bun in the shape of a bow.
baconbrain, Feb 13 2006

       Just remember: a decendant of this 'Baker of London Towne' was responsible for burning the place down.
He must have been writing splendid poetry, and not watching the buns. Oops, there goes another one: +
Ling, Feb 13 2006

       Bunne for yew.
Galbinus_Caeli, Feb 13 2006

       Ay bun in the shape of an arrow. To go with the bow!
blissmiss, Feb 13 2006

       Yeah verily.   

       Basically, yes.
wagster, Feb 13 2006

       Didn't I read this on a Hallmark card last year?   

       <aside> And still no rhyme for peach melba <aside>   

       Your bun was kneaded, shaped, and just
Afore into yon oven 'twas thrust
A word unto mine ear rang out
So vulgar and harsh, causing me doubt
It brought momentary hesitation
To consider morality's trepidation
Over rewarding your motive
Tho' powered by a votive
To engender love and trust
But resulted in mere lust
Alas, I feel justice need be done
So in good conscience I keep the bun
And in its stead, seemingly I alone
Proffer an ugly fish bone
So let the moral of this tale be
True "luvve" cannot be had thru chemistry!
Canuck, Feb 13 2006

wagster, Feb 13 2006

       For shame, good [Canuck], 'fore ye spurn our heroe,
To speculate on what an alchemyste knowe
Mite seeme to our eyes, so moderne and wyse,
To be rubbish, but it may yet be where the truth lyes.
The Inventor's Tale, which is herein writ,
Should not be dismissed as a whole lode of shitte.
True luvve may not cumme (oops, sorry) from yon alchemyste's bench,
But a bottle may surely bring lust to a wench.
True luvve has the power to make great menne weepe,
So most goe for lust - mutch lesse tricky, and cheepe.
And when put to the question, as alle menne must,
Eiytte oute of tenne menne sayd they preferred lust.
And it may yette seeme crude to distinguish so fine,
But that's surelie the pointe of our Fest Valentyne!
For this tale, good [wags], of gadgeteree,
I humbly do now proffer this paystrie.
moomintroll, Feb 13 2006

       This poem seems to have sprung up responses almost as good as the original. Keep 'em coming!
dbmag9, Feb 13 2006

       //This poem seems to have sprung up responses almost as good as the original. Keep 'em coming!//   

       no, this is a work of art that Chaucer would be proud of!
po, Feb 13 2006

       Who the heck is Art Chaucer?   

       This tale entertained me, I read it through gladly
But something about it did trouble me, sadly
The cherubs, the lense, they caught my attention
And I've a fondness for candles, now that you mention
The alchemist's prowess I found delightful
But behind was a motive quite frightful
Here was our hero, his love unrequited
His heart sought to be with his love, reunited
So he set a series of events into motion
And created a gift that expressed this emotion
But when his true love reacted in kindness
Lust and libido did cause him blindness
Instead of plying the wench with strong liquours
He used his guile to get into her knickers
For the tale itself a croissant is deserved
But for the message it sends a fishbone is served.

       Sorry, wags.
Canuck, Feb 15 2006

       Sillie queynte. Consider thyself bunneth'd.
zen_tom, Feb 15 2006

       [zentom] sp. queint
Dub, Feb 15 2006

       I too, a poor wench with neglectful swain
Know well the source of your maid's pain
I still wait in vain for my sweetheart's token
And yearn for sweet nothings as yet unspoken
So pouting my lip and being thoroughly miffed
I read through my sulk of your goodly gift
Such a trinket, a bauble that true luvvve shewd
Would verily greatly improve my mood
Although in my case, it must be conceded,
The lust-making powders would not be needed
Alchemy of that kind have I in great profusion
Which makes tumbling the linen a foregone conclusion


       Oh, and bun+
squeak, Feb 15 2006

       [zentom] Sorry, you're probably right. May I offer my sincerest contrafibularities.
Dub, Feb 16 2006


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