Troubadour Man

Alas, the time has come for every man who touts a trumpet to show his mettle. For every soul whose fingers lightly graze the harp on a cool summer’s eve to hold his head high. Indeed, to every one of us who, to prove his worth, carries from village to village his lyre on his back as if it were his own firstborn child… I ask you now: are you men troubadours? Or are you just a bunch of pussies?

With haste, I behest your response. Are you the poets, composers, and singers of courtly medieval songs? Or are you simply a group of pussies?

The hour approaches where we must walk through the streets of the village — juggling, jumping through hoops, rhyming for the ladies, singing our little songs, and so forth. Are you strong men, brave, cunning, and prepared? The proudest of players? The mightiest of minstrels? Or are you, verily, pussies?

Are you men lute-touting, story-shouting, sensitive, kind, creative troubadours? Or are you warm, wet, slippery, tangy pussies?

Of receiving no answer, I grow weary. And so, once more, I query. Are you men the true troubadours of our age? Those who play to keep the queen’s favor? Who entertain to live, and live to entertain? Who sometime dole up in blackface to play on a character of moorish descent? Are you they? Or rather… a regiment of mere vaginas?

Please, please do tell me, for I cannot remember. This morning, a horse kicked me in the side of the head, and now the world is fuzzy.

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