The minstrel's vest is lozengy, of crimson silk and black,
His sleeves are long and counterchanged, and tied behind his back.
The minstrel's true love laughed a laugh, a sweet laugh laughed she,
"I wonder who'd do such a thing - it couldn't have been me..."

The minstrel's tune is merry, though his love songs are forlorn
He sings both on throughout the night, until they greet the morn
And singing gaily by his side, a merry tune and bright,
A lady steeped in living lore, song-swapping through the night.

The minstrel's heart is full of love, his songs are full of pain,
He'll lead you in a bawdy verse, then make you laugh again
In every tune she hears his soul, reflected in each word,
A spirit loyal, deep, and blest with sense of the absurd.

The minstrel turns his life to songs, and sings them to amuse;
The laughter of his listeners rewards survived abuse.
His true love hears the pain within, and seeks to hold him close,
To heal by her proximity as -ose adds with mor-ose.

The red and black of either sleeve, of bleeding heart or gaping void,
Falls long as he serves other's needs, calm temper rarely seen annoyed,
And though she sees within him more than jester's baubles, cap, and bells,
She ties them both behind his back, as stifled laughter in her swells.

And as he reaches forth to take the instrument by which he serves,
He finds once more this knotty problem's laughter heals his shredded nerves.
And so once more untangling himself, the circle once more "clothes-ed",
In laughter love was nurtured, his condition diagnosed.

27 June 2002