There once was a simple man,
Paid a visit by his King,
Who left him with a gift so strange;
A flute he must make to sing.
Though unfamiliar with instrument,
Untrained and lacking skill,
Soon tunes began to issue forth
To honor his Lord and liege’s will.
He left his home to share the gift,
Surely others would want to hear,
Tunes played from his master’s flute
He sought out all who came near.
First, he greeted a pastor,
a man who cared for souls.
Who laughed and said, “You’re nothing,”
then continued with his stroll.
Next, he met a shopkeeper, a woman
who spoke so authoritatively.
“I have more important things to do,” said she,
“then listen to the likes of thee.”
Then came some workers,
Who saw the chipped and worn flute,
Placing hands over ears, they laughed in scorn,
And hurled insults brute.
One passerby slowed a moment,
Then beheld the man’s plain state,
Decided he could not listen or attend,
It wasn’t worth his wait.
Now, the peasant, not knowing what to do,
Tried his music in the street.
But the noise and chaos of the crowd
Drowned out his tunes so pure and sweet.
At last, he settled atop a hill
A troubadour whose soul must sing,
Music of such uncommon beauty,
Offered to honor his Lord and King.