Who his foul tail with paper wipes,
  Shall at his ballocks leave some chips.

What, said Grangousier, my little rogue, hast thou been at the pot, that thou dost rhyme already?  Yes, yes, my lord the king, answered Gargantua, I can rhyme gallantly, and rhyme till I become hoarse with rheum.  Hark, what our privy says to the skiters: 

Shittard,
Squirtard,
Crackard,
   Turdous,
Thy bung
Hath flung
Some dung
   On us: 
Filthard,
Cackard,
Stinkard,
   St. Antony’s fire seize on thy toane (bone?),
If thy
Dirty
Dounby
   Thou do not wipe, ere thou be gone.

Will you have any more of it?  Yes, yes, answered Grangousier.  Then, said
Gargantua,

A Roundelay.

In shitting yes’day I did know
The sess I to my arse did owe: 
The smell was such came from that slunk,
That I was with it all bestunk: 
O had but then some brave Signor
Brought her to me I waited for,
   In shitting!

I would have cleft her watergap,
And join’d it close to my flipflap,
Whilst she had with her fingers guarded
My foul nockandrow, all bemerded
   In shitting.

Now say that I can do nothing!  By the Merdi, they are not of my making, but I heard them of this good old grandam, that you see here, and ever since have retained them in the budget of my memory.

Let us return to our purpose, said Grangousier.  What, said Gargantua, to skite?  No, said Grangousier, but to wipe our tail.  But, said Gargantua, will not you be content to pay a puncheon of Breton wine, if I do not blank and gravel you in this matter, and put you to a non-plus?  Yes, truly, said Grangousier.

There is no need of wiping one’s tail, said Gargantua, but when it is foul; foul it cannot be, unless one have been a-skiting; skite then we must before we wipe our tails.  O my pretty little waggish boy, said Grangousier, what an excellent wit thou hast?  I will make thee very shortly proceed doctor in the jovial quirks of gay learning, and that, by G—­, for thou hast more wit than age.  Now, I prithee, go on in this torcheculative, or wipe-bummatory discourse, and by my beard I swear, for one puncheon, thou shalt have threescore pipes, I mean of the good Breton wine, not that which grows in Britain, but in the good country of Verron.  Afterwards I wiped my bum, said Gargantua, with a kerchief, with a pillow, with a pantoufle, with a pouch, with a pannier, but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchecul; then with a hat.  Of hats, note that some are shorn, and others shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffeties, and others with satin.  The best of all these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstersion of the fecal matter.