Lord, in truth I deserve favor.
Thereís 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 eíen Apolloís canít compare.
But still Iím mocked by jealous fools
Whose talentís all in whispered dirt.
Who mock the raucous musesí 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,
Thatís why their verses are so lame.
For when a poetís lost his fire,
ĎTis time to shut up and retire.
Their petty carping makes me sick.
My words are eíre thrown back at me.
Make deeds, not words, aye thatís the trick.
Be sly and court mendacity,
That is the tale their actions tell.
Be covert friend and all is well.
But Iíve no need for vainglory,
Or strutting Ďround 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 canít match my peerless verse.
ĎTis true that Iím 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 singerís 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).