In the days of yore when Kings ruled and the knights were bold.
The Royal Fool never ever fights and stays in from the cold.
Horses do stink, armor's cold and chain mail itches, as a rule.
The Lord's feed me, the tailor adorns me; so really, who's the fool?
I can, and do insult His Highness with ironic and comedic verve.
A Noble wouldn't even dare to do that, even if he had the nerve.
I am handsomely rewarded for levitating some glitzy sticks.
I can regale the masses with charming wit and magic tricks.
However, my existence is not completely without some flaws
For I must serve St. Nick at Yuletide, as a subordinate Clause.
So, maybe my pranks and jesting are not quite so novel;
I do well, thank you muchly, 'cause I was born to grovel.