On a misty morn, he walks the street

a chain of meats he carry

to the merchant's wife, to bring her aid,

and dares he not to tarry.

The merchant's wife requires foods

and more she needs of Frank

the chain of bangers, coiled for her

he rushed in weather, dank.

Some bangers she requested, true

and she had asked for more

the open door to her boudoir

gave clue to her implore.

"I say, you have my produce, m'lady

what more of me you seek?"

"I'll have another sausage, man

a footlong savory link."

And so he showed his hidden gift

the merchant's wife, was pleased.

she ordered daily rations hence,

and served her household, these.

Her husband did not mind, it seems

to have no foul nor pork.

engrossed he was in counting coin

and spent all thought on work.

And so in bliss, the merchant's wife

received Frank's inventory

but their lives changes as entered he,

the bard, to change the story.

A bard he was, a poet skilled,

in rhyming cobbled, verse.

invited he, 't merchant's house

with parchment, writ in terce.

Presented he the balad short,

and as she read she smiled.

and thus the bard, enchanted he,

his humors thus beguilled.

Applied his quill and wrote her more,

of wond'rous things of hew

it was, of course a subtle glint

a literary clue.

And read she well and found his heart

alluded 'twixt his lines

she gave him food and kisses,

and in bed they sat and dined.

One day she served him sausage links,

in linen sheets they laid,

t'was then they heard a clamor,

remonstrations of the maid.

They hurried, coverd naked flesh,

in cloth, and woolen dress.

and met the injured sausage-smith

Who saw her hair a mess.

A wild and savage mane she had,

untamed because of haste

and Frank was sure what had transpired,

His love she had misplaced.

And challnged he, the bard to meet,

and settle things of pride,

the bard had blinked but made ascent,

his honor he wont hide.

I knew them both, o friends of mine,

poor bard and gallant Frank,

they met again despite my tries,

along the riverbank.

I tried to bring them peace in song

and desperately strummed my lute,

but it was livid, hurtful stares,

it made my efforts mute.

Presented they the weapons, sharp,

their daggers; all they owned

they pounced upon another quick.

and soon, i heard a groan.

The bard was cut, his injury,

was deep and his blood flow

he fell upon the grass and lay

his eyes in pain aglow.

We rushed to help and comfort him,

he smiled then , as we nursed,

and said it did occur to him,

that Frank had done his wurst.

The inn was full. He had departed,

to eat the common food as beans,

the waitress served him, kind-hearted,

she, knowing he was without means.

Princess came, alone, danger darted,

he fought, killing all, more than seems,

approached his love, bowing, farted,

and hanged for that, above the beams…

Troubadour, bard and sausage maker

In a time before the booty shaker

Unlikely team

Babbling stream

Their art was a money raker

Every story has a beginning

The climb before the winning

Song and story

Time before glory

The laughs and fists that send them spinning

A drunken loon that all ignore

Waltzed upon the butcher's door

Angry shout

Cast out

The nonsense-chanting troubadour

Around the sausage maker turned

Saved as the little market burned

A man saved

Adventure craved

Unlikely debt to be returned

Singing and dancing with no justification

Blending the days with no destination

Princes of mud

Fall with a thud

All to be shunned by a nation

But in the muck they met another

Cast from a tavern, a third unlikely brother

Running hard

Came the bard

In a crash to match no other

Cast from the village were all three

With only each other for company

Treading a wood

Where none should

Combating their fears in harmony

Around then they all discovered

Their hidden talent uncovered

Tales of long

Cast in song

As the people marveled and hovered

Across the towns they would flourish

Singing by tunes of lute and Moorish

Low and high

They sang to sky

To the soul the music seemed to nourish

So now you see how in a time so hard

Of the plain commoner whom none regard

Three ill-fated

The hand belated

Upon a sausage maker, troubadour and bard