Uploaded May 2025 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago

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| Contact Me: thebardichearth@gmail.com |

A washed up bard shouts at a child.

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Lyrics:

I just sang some song about slaying a dragon
I’ve ne’er before actually seen.
The audience cheers and they tip by the flagon
of precious, mind-blackening mead.
A child approaches, eyes glossy and gleaming;
he smiles when he looks up me.
He says, “I know some tunes on my grandfather’s lute,
and one day I’ll be just like thee.”

“Sing us a song, dear bard! Weave us a tale!
Tell us how good people always prevail!
Play us a ditty, we’ll pay from the tap,
and after, you’ll feast from our scraps!”

Tell you the truth, kid, the story’s a lie;
ten fools fight a dragon, and nine of them die.
. . . Plus one
The world is a death trap that no one survives
and bards are the lowest alive.
I sing out my heart to the clamoring crowd
night after night, but the quiet gets louder and louder.
I once was so joyous and proud,
and now I sleep under the clouds

We bards are all beggars, the rest of us thieves,
for we are the waste that society leaves.
Our lungs full of song, and our bellies of air,
but kid, that’s just life – it ain’t fair.

The child runs off crying and leaves me alone;
I gulp down the rest of my mead.
The patrons all gawk and they scoff and they groan,
but I bite every hand that don’t feed.
Take it from me, folks, if you want to fester
and rot with the rest on the street,
then pick up a lyre with the liars and jesters.
We’ll sing some more songs we can’t eat.