The rottenest chaps in this pastime of ours
Are clearly the heavies, who never take showers.
Examine them closely, you’ll gasp at the stink
No wonder they say that the king is a fink!

The fighters, the fighters, the fighters are worst
They’re sordid and stinky and kinky and cursed

The heavy is dull, as we’re all well aware,
With ugly big eyebrows and lank, greasy hair
He sweats in his armour, he drinks Gatorade,
And nothing he wears is remotely well made

The squire, you know, our contempt is beneath
With small piggy eyes and his yellow buck teeth
He blows his own trumpet, he’s too often heard,
And he longs for a peerage – that’s clearly absurd!

The knight is self-centred, he shows no respect
If he has any brain, well, it’s hard to detect
He can’t be relied on, he won’t keep an oath
His gut’s all that shows any personal growth!

And looking at royals, one cannot say things
For the princes and viscounts, the counts and the kings
The fighters are fighters, no matter their hats
And to try to control them is like herding cats!

And all through the Known World every kingdom’s the same
They think that the stuff that we do is a game!
But worse — so much worse — than the sins of these churls,
Is the fact that they somehow still get all the girls!

It’s not that they’re wicked or naturally bad
It’s knowing they’re stickjocks that makes them so mad
For the minstrels are really the best you will see,
And the best of the best are my listeners… and me!