'Twas pillage and the slicey droves
Did pyre the village and did rapes
Of missies in the borage groves;
Ravaged Rhônes, yanked out grapes.

Beware the jabb'rin' Goths, my sons,
Their jaws form biting brickbats; natch,
They also club and drub like Huns,
And ruin with brands yer thatch.

They take their corpseful sword in hand
As guys in Circ. Maximus fought.
A jestful breed, they make eardrums bleed. . .
And wound with wily thought.

These bandits oafish, not R. Hood,
These brandin' Goths sure like to flame.
Shame--when they are touching off wood,
It's burning, your domain.

Short-fused, snort booze--these crews unloosed;
The corpseful blade goes "slityerback."
You're left for dead. "I'm not dead yet!"
You vent in corpse-clumped pack.

Thou hast not slain the jabbin' Goths
Whose words caused harm, like "she-fists boy!"
"I'm fractured, 'kay?!! Mauled mitts . .malaise."
Mean, forceful stings employed.

They pillaged did the fiery Goths;
They pyred the village, raped the grapes.
Even more vicious than their wroth
Was their malicious japes.