  Hey, come to me, you slipshod race, Picklocks and squealing bagpipe crew, Come, strumpet, knave and monkey-face, Come loafers, I’m the lad for you! Come ragged cloak and tattered shoe, Your wild, hot liberty I sing, For I am of your nation, too, The poet is the beggars’ king. You playthings of the copper’s mace, You toys of wind and rain and dew, You whom the yelping watchdogs chase, Whom blows and noisome ills pursue, Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through As through some rotten paper thing, To whom nor want nor woe is new, The poet is the beggars’ king. You hoboes, whom the sun’s embrace Has burned to darkly golden hue, You trollops, full of love and grace, Whom half a hundred lovers woo, You little crawling babies who Just wear your hides for costuming, Old toothless men with noses blue, The poet is the beggars’ king. L’ENVOI My subjects all and vassals true, Come, give me royal welcoming, May booze be plenty, bulls be few, The poet is the beggars’ king. |
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