by Krissy Hunter, August 12, 2006
The troubadour, he sings and writes,
Woos, lampoons, and delights.
Children laugh, while women swoon,
And evening ends, much too soon.
But back he’ll be, and with a will,
Armed with parchment and a quill.
The troubadour, he travels far
(Often where the ladies are.)
To sing his songs of sweet romance,
In the hopes he’ll have a chance,
To tiptoe softly through the night,
Towards her rooms by candlelight.
The troubadour, he must be swift,
To dodge a lordling, mighty miffed,
Who finds his lady not alone.
Doing things he can’t condone.
To whom the poet wisely says,
“I think it’s best that we part ways.”
The troubadour, he lives for love,
For dreams, for stars, for skies above,
He lives for tales by firelight,
For with the words his soul takes flight.
It is the life of spirits free,
Those bound to leave a legacy.