Bleed me red or black my eye –
You can't have water when the well's run dry.
Storm and curse or stomp and beat –
You ate the ox, so there ain't no meat.
Thrash me through, you'll get no grain –
You've had my loaf, and you can't again.
Your siege can speed without my sons –
You spent them all where the black brook runs.
My daughter dear shan't warm your bed –
You stole our coal, she's cold and dead.
Pick the lint from out my coat –
And here's my teeth for your milk-white throat!
"Thirty-two" is the count of human teeth. This ditty is freely made available, under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License, to anybody who judges that they see a good use for it.
(1) Apologies for the imbecile and unnoticed rhyming of 'dry' with 'dry' in the first couplet as originally posted.
(2) No, I do not mean to imply that it is time to be biting anybody's throat out, metaphorically or otherwise! But I do think it's well time already to sing songs about peasants' long patience with their masters finally expiring. Anybody who suspects the coronet might fit them, will then be very free to consider whether it is really as becoming as all that.