THE MUSE OF GEOFFREY CHAUCER

[Well, he might have chosen French ... ]

From a window in Heaven a small inky man
Looked down through six hundred years,
And he sighed as he scratched at his straggling beard,
While his eyes showed a glitter of tears.
“When first I began to write my tall Tales,
I studied the fine English verbiage,
And ‘twas then that I found a beautiful sound
From the peasantry through to the Baronage!
From the old to the young, they all spoke the fine tongue,
From serfdom right up to the leaders -
Neither Saxon nor Pict - I would never inflict
Such barbarous tongues on my readers!
But alas! “ And he sighed, his heart like to break -
“Hark now what has become of us since?
My dear English is mangled, its grammar entangled:
I weep and I wail and I wince!
Had I known when I wrote my wise, whimsy Tales
Of the horrid corruptions through England and Wales,
Through Scotland and Ireland, so-called British Isles
Which have brought me these tears, with no thought of smiles
Why, if I could re-write them, my beautiful stories,
No more would I leave them to crude English mores.
No, instead I would write, though ‘twould be a sad wrench,
My Canterbury Tales all in fine NORMAN FRENCH!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~