And in Ashford upon the meadows,
you can see a man chasing shadows.
Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
look at him and hear him prattle.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Knightly in body, but the character? No.
With a bow from finest ash,
he entered the field quite brash.
His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Watch him rage and have his fits.
"It's magic! It's Fey!" That's his claim,
but it's clear as day who is to blame.
No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
But shouting and baying, these faults to hide.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Demands a favor. Does not want to pay.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Would sell his niece to the Fey.
But this deal won't stand.
Not on Ashford land.
Yet the neighbours look and what they swear?
"No spell seen on the lass." The verdict quite clear.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His arrows plow dirt. His honor at stake.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His niece splits an arrow, sealing his fate.
The lass the crowd cheers,
For the knight they have jeers.
But a moral we find in the tale of this brute.
Be kind to thy neighbours and to those who own lutes.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.
Do not meddle in the affairs of Bards, for they are unsubtle and have a sense of humour.