who after us still live

villon wrote ballades all those years ago
about his friends the members of the gang
who were we learn not at all slow
to use the knife as a quite literal fang
to set free the trapped blood the sang
of honest bourgeois on the unlit street
then wipe and polish the besmeared tang
the money goes to those who are most fleet

we who've come after cannot really know
what songs the hardworking thieftakers sang
or how and in what words they chose to crow
we know that villon when about to hang
asked pardon for his crimes but after clang
of slammed cell doors he danced on airy feet
his death came with a whimper not a bang
the money goes to those who are most fleet

still we can see that his creations flow
like all the wine of which his ballads sang
and we believe that he made a brave show
when paying for all those whom his blade stang
of terror he would have shown not a pang
but claimed to be prepared the judge to meet
when from beneath his feet the trapdoor sprang
the money goes to those who are most fleet

prince i ask pardon for this long harangue
these are not times to be calm nor discreet
around your neck they yet may place the cangue
the money goes to those who are most fleet