Cry to us, travelling town crier, of the coronation,
of gleaming metals never glanced upon here; just glum copper,
of velvet and visions that don’t involve us.
Tell your tale, tale-teller,
and don’t leave out the licentiousness and the late-hour brawls
for us to relate to lest we wander off forlorn,
lest our serf-hearts stray from the crown’s signpost.
Gossip about gowns, gossip-mongerer,
worn by haughty highborn, forever out of reach but still hideous.
Convince us to care if you can;
let us agree on palace attire while our men assemble in the barns.
Reap our attention, report back our loyalty; keep your eyes off the robbers.