Because it chatouieth myn fancie

I'm no writer of Middle English, but by the Great Dane and St Bernard, I can puzzle my way through it when I come across it.

For several months, now, I have availed myself of the opportunities at Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog, where Old Geoff his own self holds forth somewhat sporadically.

I'll admit right up front that it isn't necessarily up everyone's alley (or the alleye of everyoune), as it sometimes requires rolling over, barking, and scratching one's right ear simultaneously to get the gist of it. However, he's currently sorting through the characters he's created to participate in a fictional pilgrimmage tentatively titled Tales of Canterburye. I hope he doesn't end up leaving these guys crumpled up in the recycle bin:

An INDIAN CHIEF, a COWBOYE and a COPPE
A WERKERE and a LEATHER MANNE (a toppe)
Did marche togedir in fraternitee
Al thogh thei were of varyinge lyveree.
Thei knewe sum auncient magicke remedye
For “Y M C A” dide they ful loude crye,
And lifte ther armes lyk vnto menne gone woode.
And eek yt semede their mappe was nat too goode:
Thogh Canterburye-warde we headede Est
In unison thei seyde to us ‘Go Weste.’