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Vostr'alens es tant putnais,
veill'ab color de pomsire,
que·us geita las denz del cais.
Car ab vos no·m platz
ni acortz ni patz
per c'ab diniers [se] pot prendre
vostres peitz voiatz;
e·us par a las denz
don qingen son menz
E del veill mon paire
pogratz esser maire,
Na veill[a] carcais!
Car om gensor vos vei
sembla levada malavei.

Your breath is so foul,
you lemon-coloured crone,
that it drives your teeth from your jaw.
For, with you, I don't wish
for agreement nor for peace
for, with money, one can take
your flabby breasts;
and it seems to your teeth
(of which about fifteen are missing)
and of my old father
you could be the mother,
Lady Old Mouth

Note: Montan's editor claims he can't make any sense of the last two verses; unfortunately, neither can I. If anybody has any idea, please drop me a line.