I was born in Stratford back in 1564
My good friend Billy Shakespeare lived in the hut next door
We dranketh beer and poacheth deer and raised hell throughout the shire
Bill became the world’s leading dramatist, I became the town crier

Every day I roam the cobblestones crying out events of the day
Every night I’m down at the pub crying about the rent I cannot pay
I’m not stout enough for these bitter times, hey porter, bring a yard of ale
I’m going on a binge from here to Stonehenge, I got a real sad tale to tell

They call me the town crier, bringing you the news
They call me the town crier, singing you the blues
They call me the town crier, cause I cry all over town

A Stratford-upon-Avon lady really rang my bell all right
I thought she was working days, turns out she was working on knights
We used to sing and dance a lot, so I tell you, man, it’s a riddle
Why she run off with Sir Lancelot, they got a baby named Lance-a-little


I make my routes every day, morn and evening tide
Keeping you abreast of things of interest, I report, you decide
The townfolk think I’m just a guy with journalistic talents
But after what that woman done to me, I may be fair but I ain’t balanced


I went to the Globe on my day off to catch a matinee
And I just don’t understand old Bill or what he’s trying to say
He’s writing about princes from Denmark and cannibals from Rome
If it’s tragedy he’s interested in he could find it closer to home


So here’s another farthing, pick up your lute/loot, Troubador
Sing and play me to another day and the life I knew before
Back before all this insanity that just keeps getting insaniter
When a feller could say what was on his mind without doing it in iambic pentameter