Me: King of England. Attractive middle-aged man, about three hundred pounds, tiny nose, British accent wearing a floppy hat, pantaloons, and a sizable codpiece. Chewing on a turkey bone and whipping my manservant Freddy, who happens to be a midget.
You: Milkmaid, on the road to Devonshire, bent over a goat, coaxing its udders with the tenderness one might expect from a midwife or a leeching specialist.
I rode by you on my horse, my codpiece becoming more and more confining as I watched your heaving bosom go up and down due to your coughing fits. I assume you have some sort of wasting disease as you are very skinny, and this appeals to me. I should like to fornicate with you before you drop dead or become healed and gain back any weight.
If you are interested in producing a male heir for me, you could become the Queen of England, and provided you continue to satisfy me sexually for the rest of my life, I will not have you murdered in the town square for all to see.
I bet you don't get that offer every day, am I correct?
If you think I'm turned off by the fact that you seem to have only one working leg, on the contrary...I'm intrigued. Was there some sort of farm accident? Perhaps a donkey attacked you? Or were you just born that way because your father insulted a gypsy?
There is no better aphrodisiac than a good mangled leg story.
If you'd like to reach me, I can be found in the giant castle right next to the spot where the pig butcher used to live, but if you reach the sheep bleeder's shop, you've gone too far.
I'll be waiting for you, my little hobbling milk maid.
Oh, and one more thing--
Bring the goat.
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