Moola

Come, oh come I plead,
Fill my twig with thy blead,
Thy presence makes rife,
Thy absence sucks life.

Pilliards crave thy bread,
Nobles thy squabble they dread,
Buffoons query thy worth
But the sage revere thy broth.

My adversaries please bridle,
My fellas please fondle,
Come, oh come pervade my bosom,
That my manes may blossom

And my barn mated,
Then will I be sated.