Lord, in truth I deserve favor.
There’s so few artists left these days
Who write verses one can savor
Aye, most are weak and rancid lays,
So unlike mine, which are so rare
That e’en Apollo’s can’t compare.But still I’m mocked by jealous fools
Whose talent’s all in whispered dirt.
Who mock the raucous muses’ rules
And warp bright motley to stuffed shirt.
Screw them all, I scorn their quarrel ...
Love the muse and fuck the Laurel.They say I court vulgarity!
Sweet lord! Since when are poets tame.
Ah wait ... they are in charity,
That’s why their verses are so lame.
For when a poet’s lost his fire,
‘Tis time to shut up and retire.Their petty carping makes me sick.
My words are e’re thrown back at me.
Make deeds, not words, aye that’s the trick.
Be sly and court mendacity,
That is the tale their actions tell.
Be covert friend and all is well.But I’ve no need for vainglory,
Or strutting ‘round with pompous air.
My talent tells its own story,
A tale that makes these hacks despair.
Though they may whine and rant and curse,
These peers can’t match my peerless verse.‘Tis true that I’m a troubadour
And will not make my talent whore.
But if reward is given slander
Seek not a poet but a pander.
While if to honor truth is sought,
Then sweet my lord, reward Guiraut.
In the Vanto style -- "A comic song boasting of the singer’s talents, attainments and status in grossly exaggerated terms." -- GvN
Guiraut is Gerhardt's "alter-ego", this is from a series of poems Gerhardt published in his second folio.
© 1984, Lawrence Hyink III
The West Kingdom History Website was created by and is maintained by Hirsch von Henford (mka Ken Mayer).