Singing on the Road; and for Supper.

 

Old troubadours remain

Their songs the ages greet

Some speak of tragic ills

And others sound so sweet.

They go with horse of years

At pace not hurried so

They play a fiddle’s tears

And hum what we don’t know.

The face is weathered, lined

Some roads they did not take

Til saw familiar signs

And lodged so warm, they’d bake.

And friends are made right quick

For whist or whittling glad

Occasionally fell sick

But never dreadfully bad.

The food will hit the spot

And ale a tad too sour

But worry, he does not

With friends at music’s hour.