The sky is my blanket,
My pillow, a stone,
I wander the landscape,
Don’t sit on a throne.

With Troubadour music,
I sing songs of love,
Of beautiful maidens,
As pure as the dove.

With countenance fair,
They live among Lords,
As knights in white armour,
Protect them with swords.

I sing of the Baron,
Who owns all the land,
While tax from his Serfdom,
Is what he demands.

I sing of confusion,
I sing of despair,
With people going hungry,
With nothing to wear.

I make fun of Kingdoms,
And mostly of Kings,
As common folk listen,
They’re lifted on wings.

Forgetting their troubles,
At least for a time,
This Troubadour music,
Is truly sublime.