Entertainer

Who are you? they ask, eyes wide, full of delight,

Why, there are many answers to that—perhaps more than you’d like,

I am a minstrel, a bard, a wanderer of sorts,

I am a beggar, a man, a stringer for ports,

 

Cheers! they tell me, for we are the same,

I gasp, heavens no! I cry with disdain,

I am quite different—oh, yes I am,

And here I shall prove it to you, I’ll try not to be too bland,

 

I walk along the path of life, trusty instrument in hand,

Slipping between my fingers like time and sand,

And here, I ask you now, Do you think you know the meaning of life?

Wait! Don’t answer, you’ve yet to hear my whispers of strife,

 

My tunes of things unknown and things forgotten,

Dreams of all that is blessed and all that is rotten,

Lucky are you, I say, to find me here now,

And lucky am I, to find myself in this town,

 

Past hills and mountains is where I usually sing,

For dinner, for supper, for whatever my tunes can bring,

Melodies filled with fortunes and rhyme,

Words that speak of delighted taverns and of rivers running dry,

 

I’ve found a talking cat, who quite liked my pouch,

I was thirsty then and the city was suffering from drought,

I wasn’t hallucinating, mind you,

I know what I saw, because others saw it, too,

 

During a particularly trying day, I fought a bear,

See this scar it left me? Gave my nurse quite the scare!

Another night, I swear I saw a beggar with wings,

Her hooded face and dirty feet made my sympathy sing,

 

I’ve met many folk along my way,

Some large, some happy, but most gone astray,

They tell me that my hands make them weep,

I say that those are merely the experiences they keep,

 

I ask the crowd now, Are you interested in more?

They remain silent and I continue, Or would you prefer I echo airs of lore?

For I’m no ordinary man—I can see them think through their eyes,

Windows to the soul, shutters available only to the blind,

 

I have them hooked now, I can see it,

And I smile, strum my fingers—enough to nearer them bit by bit,

My melody entrances them, makes them gasp,

They pull out their wallets and I open a nearby cask,

 

As more gather in anticipation for my song,

And I wait just enough for even more to mosey along,

I settle down now, prepare to tell them of a tale they won’t know,

Of daring triumphs, bitter regrets, and of ghostly homes,

 

 

Little do they know about the truths behind my words,

That there are none, for I’m merely a weaver of worlds,

I sing for my supper and for gain,

I love what I do, yet I hate it all the same,

 

For I am a soloist, a journeyman, a songster of time,

A brigand, a thief, and a teller of lies.

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