Noctisardor Bypass lieblichkeit

Ah, he would, would he? Wylla knew a song or two, compliments of her mother's raunchy humour, that might twist even Mahler's whiskers into a knot. They were all sea shanties meant to be sang in a rowdy uproar, so required little more than a sense of rhythm. Her rough, off-tune voice suited them quite well. So, pitching her voice quiet so only he might hear, she sang a few verses from the bawdiest she knew:

The forty second fusiliers come marching into town,
and with 'em come the complement of rapists of renown.
They busted every maidenhead that came within their spell,
but they never made the medic from the High Tide cartel.

Next come a company of the prince of Island dogs,
They piled into the whoredens and they packed into the bogs,
Many a maiden, mistress, and a wife before them fell,
but they never made the medic from the High Tide cartel.

She snorted with laughter, unable to continue. My mom used to sing about shit like that, she explained, lest he harrumph and leave to find himself some less improper company. To embarrass us, I think.