Hey Troubadour

Do you believe what the troubadour told you?
Doom in his head when the troubadour sings
Holy chanteuse with his perfume and purview
Luminous pet with so pointed a pen
That's the mess made by a paid rhetorician, who bows as he halts to the people of worth
And all they accord the words borne of commission; avowed and exalted like salt of the earth
And such a shame it is, for there's a truth in your eyes. Brightest day, clearest sky
If the banks of England are well, and the men who feed them are ill, and the lies that keep them are taught, is the fate of freedom then bought?
When you arrived at the summit of Sinai, had you kissed feet and were yours kissed in turn?
Did you receive every virtuous guideline in revelation, or were they presumed?
I could guess
Now you intone with divine ululation, enveloping all in mellifluous verse
Hey troubadour, all things of your creation are poison and vacant, you cower and curse
You're the rag round the heads of all men for there's a truth in your eyes, brightest day, clearest sky
The banks of England are ill and the lies that keep them lie still and the men who feed them are poor, for the fate of freedom is bought