Sir Arthur: If ye haveth peasant problems, I feel woe for thee, my lady. I hath ninety and nine sorrows, But the well-being of peasants shan't be one.
Fair Lady: Goeth home, my Lord, you are quite drunketh.
Sir Arthur: Ye used to to calleth upon me through thy carrier pigeon--
Fair Lady: What has my life cometh to?
Sir Arthur: Ho!His Palms are sweaty, Knees weaketh, Armes art not Pleasant, There be vomit on yon Tunic already, Mother's stuffed Pheasant, He feeleth lyke having Shiveringe Fever, but on yon Surface He looks Calm and ready To burn Heretics, but He keeps not recalling What he wrote down, the whole Crowd goes so loud He opens thy Mouth, but the Words come as Naught out He is choking, how, Peasants tell witty Tayles now The Sande has run out, Hourglass turns over, bow! Snap back to Reality, oh, he discovered Gravity!Oh, yon goes a Warlock, he burned The Inquisitor is so mad, but He won't give up that easy? No, He will have It Naught, he knows his torturers' spikes and ropes It matter Naught, Wytches art stronge, He knows that, but always broke He's so stacked that he knows, when he goes back to his mobile home, that's when its Back to the Dungeon again, ho, this whole Rhapsodie He better go capture this Wytch and hope she does not pass Him!
Fair Lady: I am not aware of thine pranketh, Good Sir. If you shall, may you elaborateth so that I doth understandeth?
Sir Arthur: Ney, for this is who I am now, I am no longer a humble farmer who ploweth thy Lord's fields, I now am the poet Sir Eminemus.
(Sorry lol, I can't get enough of these Old English England crack-fics)
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Hetalia Oneshots
FanfictionIDK, Just some One-Shots of characters/x Readers that I write in my free time or whenever I want
