Clearly, Gypsy, you must be bored
Of the spilling rum you often hoarde
To take a quill and write a ditty
That is plainly anything but witty.

A claim of chasity would indeed be odd;
No mother can lay claim to that facade
As for judgment, you've nary room to speak
Considering your role upon my physique.

It is curious, I admit, to openly accuse
Me of your own habits, to disabuse,
Simply because of a woman's true bane:
Jealously, that ever-present stain.

While I admire your clever brevity
Truly, comical irony reigns surpreme,
What you lack in manners and integrity
You make up for in assumptive schemes.

Stick with your bawdy, Gods-awful songs
Sung in chanties, where they belong,
Keep to your own, and you would not remiss;
Stop putting your nose into my bloody business.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Phaestian, in the year 664 AF.