Good King Brownceslas coil'd out Something he'd been brewing, Long and plump, it loafed about In the outhouse, stewing. Brownly shone the moon that night O'er the stain'd horizon, Where the King appeared, contrite, Buttocks newly wi-i-zen'd. Shamed and lax, his circlet torn, Brownceslas 'gan weeping. Soiling Jodhpurs ev'ry morn, Buttocks ever seeping. "O to cling once more to stool With my backside harden'd! O once more to firmly rule With my Coiling pa-ar-den'd!!" Summoned he all mann'r of priest, But their holy tinctures Ne'er could make the leaking cease, Though they sooth'd his sphincter. In despair he wrote a play 'Bout his lewd condition, But, to his tearful dismay, No-one would audi-i-tion. Came he thence unto his heir, A boy both cruel and mocking-- Brownceslas he did compare To a loosen'd stocking. "Spare me, child, from my disgrace!" Begged the King, now crawling To his son who turned his face To the outhouse, ca-all-ing... In his father's steps he trod Where the snow lay tinted; Brown was in the very sod O'er which the saint had grunted. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, If your bow'l's compressing, Ye who now step in ordure Shall, as well, be me-e-ssing!