Raise the crummhorns

Blinding sunshine shining high
Reflects on crummhorn, sword and lance
Returning home, weary from battle,
To a victorious home-coming dance
The hall is full of royal dames
Rich ladies, starved and in their bloom
We drunken, stately knights in armour,
Gesture obscenely across the room

Raise the crummhorns - raise them high!
Raise the crummhorns - until we die!
If later you venture up the stair,
You will hear the wenches start to shriek
As the knights do shed their metal skins
Letting loose their juicy luncheon meat

Squires and hand maidens also climb,
Venturing to find an empty hall
He boasts of dangers, far & wide
But she finds his sausage obscenely small.

"...And if you find yourself without a mate, do not fret,
For 'tis not too late. The pig-faced cook is always fancy free,
And a suckling pig she'll prepare for thee."
The celebrations we do often hold
When we return from the fields of war
We be stories to cherish until we are old
Debauchery - three and twenty score!