"Squashed Tit, Tit like a bun"...

And it's the moment you've all been waiting for...dirty poetry hour! I bring to you three of my favorites:

Blazon of the Ugly Tit
by Clement Marot (1535)
"Tit that is nothing but skin,
Scrawny flag limply flapping
Big tit, long tit
Squashed tit, tit like a bun
Tit with a pointy nipple
Like the sharp end of a funnel,
You jounce about at every move
Without any need for a shake...
Tit, we might say that he who fondles you
Knows he has a finger in the pie.
Toasted tit, hanging tit
Wrinkled tit, tit that gives
Mud instead of milk,
The devil wants you in his
Infernal family, to nurse his daughter.
Tit to be thrown over one shoulder
Like those broad shawls of olden times
If you are spotted, lots of men feel like
Grasping you with gloves on
So as not to soil themselves, and to use
you,
Tit to slap the big ugly nose of she
Wo has you dangle below the armpit."

The Black Scrotum
Anonymous (12th-13th century)
"My Lord, in your presence
I want to say before everyone here
the reason why I have come to court.
I've been married for seven years now
with a peasant, whom I never fully knew,
until last night, when for the first time
I discovered
the reason why I can no longer stay with him,
nor remain in his company.
You'll find what I say is true:
my husband has a prick blacker
than iron, and a scrotum blacker
than any monk's or priest's cassock;
and it's hairy like the skin of a bear,
and furthermore no old moneylender's purse
was ever so swollen as his scrotum.
I've told you the truth;
I don't know how to tell it any better."

Source: Eco, Umberto (ed.). "On Ugliness". Rizzoli International Publications Inc. New York, 2007. pp. 136, 166. (If you don't already have a copy, you need to get one!)

and finally, a song

Ain Graserin
by Oswald von Wolkenstein (late 14th to early 15th c.)

"A peasant maid came walking through the cool dew,
Her pretty little white feet quite naked:
what a happy encounter, there amid the green
meadows which her trusty sickle knew so well!
There it was that I helped her to open the gate
and hold it ajar, to swing it around a little
hinge and then to close it firmly so that the
maid would never again have cause to weep
for the flight of her pretty little duckling.

When I saw the beauty coming, as quick as a
flash I hastened to help her slip the 'unruly'
one snugly into that exquisite slot: I had
carefully sharpened my hoe in view of my
work with her; moist and impatient it could
hardly wait; so I helped her to rake the grass.
'Why are you struggling so, my precious?'
'But no, what are you saying my little duckling?'

And when I had thoroughly scythed the pussy
clover and filled all the holes thereabouts, not
content, she begged me to linger a little longer
in that garden of hers down there: she wanted
to find some roses to make me a garland.
'Tease and comb my flax just a little more,
caress it if you want it to grow tall
and strong'. My heart, my darling duck, you
have the most magnificent beak!"

Source: CD liner: "Speculum Amoris, Lyrique de l'Amour Medieval du mysticisme a l'erotisme", La Reverdie.

I tried to find a recording online, but this is the best I can do. If you want to hear part of the song in the original, go here http://www.mufin.com/en/search/artist?search_keyword=Ain+Graserin&search_type=song



It's a shame the Victorians ruined our cultural sense of humor, isn't it?