Manchild (Medieval Bardcore Style)

They say that while King Richard is away crusading

John is here in England in his crown parading

We might bend the knee, but we’d need some persuading

We ought to find a word for him, commence the berating

Crooked!

Or be it rogue?

Perhaps ‘tis tyrant!

Nay I've a gentler term for it, I know

Self-styled

Look upon his works, ye mighty, despair

‘Tis a lie

For a throne is more than merely a chair

And a crown on a knave

Never did a King make

Self-styled

Thy royalty is rented,

Thou wert always meant as a spare

Why so haughty yet so frail?

Now all his jesters jape in jail

Oh fetch this man some thicker mail

We tire of this tale

Reviled

At least Arthur pulled a sword from a stone

‘Tis a lie

That thy titles are all truly thine own

Say thou’rt chosen by God

But in sooth thou’rt a fraud

Reviled

Thou shalt scurry back to mother,

The moment that thy brother is home

Oh we pray to thee, Lord, thy mercies beseech

He could freeze in the cold or drown on a beach

Catch a bit of the plague whilst making a speech

Amen, we preach

Aye, we pray to thee, Lord, to broaden thy reach

He might lose too much blood to an ambitious leech

Who can say when he might bite a ripe poisoned peach?

Amen, we preach

False pride

Thou art less a lion, more of a boar

Despised

Thy favorite sport is taxing the poor

Oh, we pray to thee, Lord, thy mercies we beg

He could meet a wild wolf who gnaws on his leg

At a royal break-fast he could choke on an egg

Amen!

Amen!