(PROLOGUE)

So our story begins with a cook and a cup;
An ale-filled goblet that the cook swallowed up.
This cook was so drunk his mouth hung open agape.
It was easy to see the others could easily jape.
So the Manciple said, “Listen here, you stinky cook,
You’re too drunk to talk, so we’ll let you off the hook.”
So he got on his horse while the cook let out a wail,
And said, “Here begins the story of the Manciple’s Tale.”

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There was a god named Phoebus, who lived long ago,
Up in his tower where he kept a snowy white crow
Who could sing sweeter than any wren, dove, or toucan,
And who could mimic the voice of any woman or man.
Now, Phoebus was the god of poetry,
So he made melody very easily,
On lute, flute, guitar, or his own heavenly voice,
He could make fine music out of any old noise.
And his sport of choice was archery – he was a sniper;
He could shoot Cupid straight out of his diaper.
And he had a hot wife, pretty, well-bred,
But she was a snob; status had gone to her head.
Phoebus loved her, though, so he decided not to show
Her to the rest of us,
But being pent up left her restless,
So she tried to rebel,
But the farther her eyes wandered, the harder he held.
Just like a bird being kept in a cage
She tried to engage with the outside world
But there were bars in the way, metaphorically,
Because one day, when Phoebus was away,
Wife’s boredom brought her to turn
To a poor merchant fella
Who made her feel wild, like a child
Holding a pistol. And they played sinfully,
But only injury results from unloyalty.
‘Cause pretty white crow witnessed the deed
But made no sound, just observed their glee,
Then turned around, returned to his tower,
Waited for Phoebus for a couple of hours.
And when the god of being cheated on
Made his return, the crow turned and sang,
“I hate to be the bearer of such bad news
But, dude, your wife’s not as white as you think.
In fact, she stinks of sex and drink.”
Upon hearing this news, Phoebus blew a fuse!
Who was this white crow to share such news?
His face grew hot and he yelled a lot,
Then he drew an arrow and then he shot.
Phoebus’ wife fell to the ground with a bang,
And he bellowed a few words worse than dang.
He smashed his harp and broke his bow
And then turned upon the poor white crow.
He yelled, “Traitor! You awful, nasty bird!
Why would you say something so absurd?
My heart aches with grief and stings with loss…
Well, I ought to show you who’s boss!”
So Phoebus grabbed hold of the bird
And he plucked out every feather
He cursed the thing a few more times
Then threw him out into the cold weather.
The naked crow was no longer white.
Without his feathers, nothing felt right.
He hurt from Phoebus’ angry plucking attack,
And that’s the reason all crows are black.

So let this be a lesson to you:
Don’t send a message unless you have to.
And keep your mouth shut if you possible can.
Get it, man?