The ballad of the accordionist, Clint

O, Hark ye, friends And laymen
hear a tell 'n gather round,
about a hero brave and true,
who fought and earned renown
a man he was, so mighty tough
by Clint, his face was known,
he'd never back down from a fight
assailants , beat, would moan
he'd never back down from a fight
His roughed up foes would moan

yet Clint, his eyes like rattlesnakes
had heart, and bright it shone,
when muse took hold, he settled down
and play 't accordion.
oh, music sooth the savage beast,
and sweeten woman's scorn,
and Clint found more adventures,
as he wooed and those Gentle-born.
and Clint could find more treasures still,
in beds of gentle-born

the ladies whom he sought were hard,
as cruel as they were fair
yet lost their scorn, they were bewitched
and toyed with their long hair,
the balconies, he stood beneath
and squeezed his songs upon,
Un-graced he was in looks or wealth,
but a windy a-ccordion.
he had no money and no grace,
'cept his old a-ccordion.

now Clint, was not a handsome man
had gold and coins, but few,
but courage had, and goodly ear,
his squeezebox painted blue,
he loosed the strap and pressed the keys
and churned out songs for those,
who otherwise would spit at him
If held he, gilded rose,
Those ladies can’t be satisfied
With just a golden rose.

A wild life had he, as he toured ,
The land , both high and low
And everywhere he went , he took
The instrument to blow,
In taverns he would take his wine,
From Kirkwall to Dijon,
He paid his way, a hired sword,
With a blue accordion.
He had his way to pay the tab
With his accordion.

One day Clint sang to woo a dame,
The wife of Two-hands Dirk,
A man that carried cleavers, sharp,
And used them ‘stead of speak,
He heard no pleas or begging,
There’s no time to turn the locks
When dirk broke out the cleavers
It was time to get a box,
When Dirk used both his cleavers,
Men would end up in the box.

And so outrage’d did Dirk become,
His wife, with Clint he found,
He caught them in flagrante, there
Upon the garden ground,
Quick, drew he both his chopping knifes,
And made to slash at Clint,
Unarmed he was, and bare of clothes,
Upon the grass and mint.
Clint’s caught while in delicto there,
‘mong flowers,sage and mint,

O, for a muse of fire,
yearned someone, i can’t recall,
Yet sure, to be that Clint had wished,
A shield for ass and balls,
As he saw the enrage’d Dirk
He waste no time, and threw
The a-ccordion that he so loved
Forestall the butcher’s hew,
At dirk he hurled the ‘ccordion,
Whose color was deep blue.

Clint’s instrument hurled thus,
It opened in a widening spread,
The concertina bellows
Held no longer, end to end,
The keyboard flew at Dirk’s left hand,
Disarming him in flight,
The other part with knobby things,
Hit squarely on the right.
The part it had, with knobby things,
Hit dirk square on the right.

As it flew, the accordion
Made sudden shrieks of fright,
It struck Dirk, made him lose the his hold
It was an awesome sight,
Yet Dirk regained his cutting tools ,
He found them on the lawn,
And set about to butcher Clint's
Most treasured a-ccordion.
Dirk took his cleavers, hacked away ,
At Clint's accordion!

Now Clint had time to rise at last,
His dagger , brandished up
Unclothed he was, and damp with sweat,
from dirk's wife' strenuous romp,
With dagger -one, and cleavers-two,
They faced each other, there,
The cries of birds, and of dirk’s wife,
The echos in the air.
The cries of dirk’s wife and the birds
Were carried through the air.

I wish to tell, that fair it was
The fight ‘twixt Dirk and Clint,
But they were armed unequally,
Despite the dearth of grit.
Then suddenly they heard a shot,
It was dirk’s wife with gun,
She threw a bullet at her man,
Then plugged the other one,
She aimed and shot right at her man,
Then shot the other one.

As Clint lay bleeding on the grass,
And Dirk was dead as wood,
He asked the lady why did she,
Had shot him as she stood,
She said her husband had no heart
And so he was begone,
And Clint had lost his charm just then,
His torn up accordion.
And Clint deserved to die without,
His torn up accordion.

Now, friends you find the moral,
Tried i have, yet could not bring
It is a post-mo-dernist tale,
Elusive muddy thing,
No good or, bad, yet all are vile,
Ambiguous the tones
But it perhaps brings home the need ,
To ban all accordions,
Perhaps it demonstrates the need,
To ban all accordions.