Verily, I must confess, a witch’s cauldron
Has been bestowed upon my belly,
Churning and roiling, Bubbling and boiling!

And, even though my days of yore on battlefields
Are far and few in-between,
I do remember bloated pig’s carcasses, stuck
Eternally asleep in strangling dead-man’s-land-muck.

With which I feel not seldomly inclined
To trade places
In my most severe moments
of deep-gut indisposition.

Dost though not hear my foul mouth speak no riddles?
Abort, it cries, abort!
Expelled be those pernicious liquids
That make haste to rend my stomach asunder.

And expelled they shall be, violently as much
As a bubonic deluge from the very ****
Of Belzebub!