Blackclover's Clan

When I short have shorn my sow's face
And swigged my horny barrel,
At an oaken inn
I impound my skin
In a suit of gilt apparel;
The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lowly owl my marrow;
The flaming drake
And the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrow.

While I do sing,
Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink or clothing?
Come, dame or maid,
Be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.