The Ballade of the Drunk and the Troubadour

Sing me a song to still my heart!
The drunk said to the troubadour.
What use have I for your dull art?
What other use I have it for
But background noise for when I pour
This here poison to help me sleep?
Forget all of the things Iíve reaped,
And even more the things Iíve sown:
Bitter memories I wonít keep.
Shield me through song from ill winds blown.

For guilt is such a funny farce!
It lingers like a putrid sore
And sticks on to all that youíre part
Of and permeates through the pores,
To show on you as tainted whores.
The trouble is its buried deep.
The more you dig at it, it seeps
Inside to be as deep as bones.
What more can you do but to weep?
Shield me through song from ill winds blown.

Yes, guilt is such a futile farce!
For when you try dig at the sores.
That labor leaves lingering scars
And you feel just like tainted whores
Kicked to the side streets out of doors
With winters wind chill at your feet,
Your sanity a strain to keep
As all the worldís now left you lone.
My similes sometimes run steep!
Shield me through song from ill winds blown.

Yes, guilt is such a funny farce!
The longer you carry the sore
The more it bores inside and starts
To seminate into your core.
Itís almost like viral terror.
My nightly poison hence in heaps
I drink because I need to sleep
And your tales sir, help mask my groans
Though they do in droves make me weep.
Shield me through song from ill winds blown.

Bitter memories I wonít keep!
All I ask is death, if not, sleep!
All I want, to be left alone!
Except you troubadour, donít leave,
Shield me through song from ill winds blown.




Poetry by Sameen
Read 37 times
Written on 2017-11-10 at 01:38

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Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
My turn to say, wow!! A very impressive ballad. Loved every line, and most especially the second stanza. Well done!
Ashe
2017-11-10


Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
An adept accomplishment in a challenging poetic form. Bravo!
2017-11-10