2018.03.28.
The troubadour
We sat as a gang at a beacha few miles outside Tylösand.
Eating sausages and crisps,
smoking too much and quaffing a 7.8 Pripps1.
I laid my eyes on a woman
who could make one become monogamous
and a bit wildly approached her
and started to pull off my great seducer-program.
Then one heard a Cat Stevens stave
to the sounds of a guitar.
There comes the guy with G
Oh a real guitar hero.
A wheat-blond Nordic prince,
two days old stubble, t-shirt and cut off jeans.
Sat down next to us,
Introduced himself as Mats.
Then he struck a tone
and started to sing in the middle of our conversation.
The girl I would have had in my bed
joint immediately in in his refrain.
Because once a bard has
started to sing an old song
everyone around will join in and bawl out.
Has he just let out a single cry
will he sing every melody
from wonderful Creedence to Carola2.
How do you tell such a girl:
You know, singing is not my thing.
But I am a damn good catch
because I studied Math and Political Science.
When you have to fight against a shower
of tones coming from a troubadour.
Then he would know the man
he who wrote the song “House of the rising sun”
That one, Mats starts without hesitation
to play on a harmonica.
Because once a bard has
started to sing an old song
it is outrageous, a disgrace3, to try to stop him.
Has he just let out a single cry
will he sing every melody
from “Dover to Calais”4 to the little flea5.
Around 4 to 5 I had enough and went home.
But I think and suspect
that he surely sits there still.
Because once a bard has
started to sing an old song
it is impossible to make him stop again.
Has he just let out a single cry
will he sing every melody
until a friendly soul chips off the neck of his lute.