In the year of our lord two hundred and forty nine,
One poor martyr, with the name Valentine;
Was made to suffer and tortured till dead,
Now we celebrate love and going to bed.
The dungeon master was so very cruel,
He lashed him with whips and nails, not cool.
Now we go forth and buy undies with feather,
And all sorts of toys, and garments of leather.
What once was a dream, nay a true fact,
That he’d rather die, than sign the devil’s pact;
Is now a big farce of chocolates and roses,
Of lovers and admirers, statements and poses.
Do you not think it would truly vex,
St Valentine to find, we celebrate sex.
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