The page is blank, the words in the cavern.
The whoreson Falstaff, that fat, aging hog
Sack and smog each behalf the Boar's tavern.
Hal holds the wealth, the inherent well-off;
Shall he lend coin so the fat may maintain?
The drunk's princely niche pays his rent and trough.
Thee horse spits and nays, so ends this quatrain.
We ask for no end, we desire for more
From this sacked Falstaff, we hire the boar.
It's late, we tire, and Jack's flat on the floor
Till the morrow we'll retire, the fat horse snores.
A hog and horse, quite a contradiction.
We plead for more, in spite of the fiction.
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