Weekend Stubble

The Times of London covers the recent Selected Works of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647 - 1680), who traditionally holds the laurel of being the most obscene poet ever.

How obscene? Let's sit down and get comfortable, shall we?

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who f- - -s who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St James’s Park
To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St James has th’ honor on ’t,
‘Tis consecrate to prick and c- -t.
There, by a most incestuous birth,
Strange woods spring from the teeming earth;
For they relate how heretofore,
When ancient Pict began to whore,
Deluded of his assignation
(Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion),
Poor pensive lover, in this place
Would frig upon his mother’s face;
Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise
Whose lewd tops f- - - -d the very skies.

Why doesn't Garrison Keillor ever read this guy? Sheesh.