hear me out, my lady,
and i know it’s cliche:
this is a story of a princess and a bard,
from a land far away.

never a prince on stallion am i,
for i can only be your knight;
never a toad on the road am i,
for no kiss shall i expect tonight.

never a wizard or sorcerer am i,
for i breathe no magic dust;
never a prophet in his charm am i,
for the globe of my heart has rust.

never a song will you sing to me,
for the willow forgets my name;
never a painting will you paint for me,
for i am but a dot on your frame.

never a dream will you dream of me,
for i am to you but a clown;
never as a king will you think of me,
for in my heart, you wear my crown.

for i am but a wanderer,
a bard and his flute in a twine.
rattle the bottle belted to my waist,
shackle my soul in its wine.

down goes the sun and the hope in me,
rises the moon and its gloom of glee.

there by the lake i shall nest my nest,
in the shadow of brimstone wall.
there in the wall i know you lie sound,
a princess in her dreamland ball.

there by clear waters i watch the vault,
the stars in their multitude.
there in their glimmer i sing to you,
i sing to you with my flute.

sleep, my lady, my princess, my love,
for it costs to dream these days.
sleep, my lady, and listen, my love,
to the flute from far away.