To these jellied English bastards
With hearts of melting wax:
I mock thine sorry bid
To conquer my unbroken will!
Thou darest climb my walls?
Go fuck yourselves, comme on dit!
Your raison d’etre’s limp and weak
(Much like other parts of thee)
And as far as I can see
There is no man ‘midst all of these!
So take your bows and crude stone blades
And leave this place, allons-y!
For no longer will this fortress host
A non-French army’s mead!
Now go! Thou worthless pigs!
Before you turn me from my peace
And turn me to the lonely war machine
Some good Frenchmen made of me.