I'ts been a while, but here's a post by The Poet. I'm not sure who he's talking about (his "lady"), but I have a feeling his self-assessment is right on the money.
Well, anyway, make of it what you will. I'm not so sure I like this guy ...
My Lady, you see, is a whore.
More Dulcinea than Beatrice.
For a while it bothered me that I sang beneath her window and later learned Ed the Plumber was up there too. And one night instead of Ed it was Leroy. And another night Steve. And another ...
She liked the singing, though, til she began to feel guilty that I was wasting all that time spilling love and praise on a woman who was not what I lyricized. She's mentioned in more than one bawdy ballad up and down the lane, I've learned - so a love poem was too much for her. She stopped her ears, threw things at me, packed up and ran off and now I wander the mud and strum her praises. They like the melodies, but if I mention her name, the fellows in the brew pubs get a funny kind of smirk.
Still, she's my lady all the same. I'm committed to her and I carry her portrait. It's the only thing I have in my wallet. No portraits of Washington or Lincoln compete with it, that is.
And she refuses to hear the ballads I offer to her, not only because they embarrass her, but also because she knows how untrue I am, down deep. It's not just the lady who's unworthy, it's also the poet.
So I trudge and I strum and I sing. A wandering minstrel who's actually a homeless bum praising his lady, who's a kind of cut-rate strumpet. An odd match, the two of us.
But the more I sing of my lady, the more I sing of her real self - for she is a true lady, she is a virgin beneath it all.
And the more I sing of my lady, the more I sing of Our Lady - the true lady, the Virgin above us all.
Our Lady of the Assumption, pray for us miserable sinners, for us wandering poets, for us desperate and shame-filled wenches.
There you have it.
The one consolation is he posts on this blog for free. The fool!
Hey, wait a minute ... so do I ...