Chaucer's Miserable Holiday

Whan that June, with endless days of sun
And ’luminated scrolls promoting fun
Absorbing U-V rays upon the sand
Or prancing to a wand’ring minstrel band,
I rode to Bournemouth, where by chance befell
To me a proper holiday from hell.
Clad only in my codpiece, on the shore,
My skin grew scarlet, blistery and sore;
This malady - from lying on the beach -
I cured by application of a leech.
Replacement of those fluids I had lost,
Through flagonfuls of cider duly cost
A quarter sovereign; then, come break of dawn
I woke upon a seaside inn’s front lawn,
My clothing all besmirched with stinking spew,
My head athrob, as if ’twere cleaved in two.
To cap it all, a wench, some tavern fox,
Purloined my purse and left me with the pox.
Perhaps, next year, to shun vacation pain,
I'll board, instead, a galleon to Spain.