Do you believe what the troubadour told you?
Doom in his head when the troubadour sings.
Holy chanteuse with his perfume and purview.
Luminous pet with so pointed a pen.
That's the mess made by a paid rhetorician, who bows as he halts to the people of worth
and all they accord the words borne of commission; avowed and exalted like salt of the earth.
And such a shame it is, for there's a truth in your eyes. Brightest day, clearest sky.
If the banks of England are well, and the men who feed them are ill, and the lies that keep them are taught, is the fate of freedom then bought?
When you arrived at the summit of Sinai, had you kissed feet and were yours kissed in turn?
Did you receive every virtuous guideline in revelation, or were they presumed?
I could guess.
Now you intone with divine ululation, enveloping all in mellifluous verse.
Hey troubadour, all things of your creation are poison and vacant, you cower and curse.
You're the rag round the heads of all men for there's a truth in your eyes, brightest day, clearest sky.
The banks of England are ill and the lies that keep them lie still and the men who feed them are poor, for the fate of freedom is bought.
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