[Intro] [Lute loop starts playing a fast, intricate melody] [Heavy boom-bap drum beat kicks in] (Hear ye, hear ye!) (Step right up... or waddle, I suppose) [Verse One] I am the village apothecary, local medical visionary Pestle in the mortar, I am the herbalist emissary Trained in the botanical, the humors and the magical But lately all my patients are dramatically tragical I used to handle leeches for the fevers and the gout Now it is just a cheeky wink and whispering "can you get it out?" I am dealing with the peasantry who slip upon the floor Landing perfectly on chalices and pitchers by the door (What a coincidence!) [Chorus] Not another artifact inserted in the rear I am begging you politely, keep the hindquarters clear No more goblets, no more carrots, no more wooden spinning wheels No more rusty fishing tackle or the slimy river eels (Keep it out!) I am at my limit, I am bending all my tongs I am writing out prescriptions but you write these tragic wrongs Take your trenchers and your tapestries and put them on a chair I am the local healer, not the rectal au pair [Verse Two] Little Tommy wandered in clutching onto the wall Claimed he was picking berries and he took a sudden fall But the pewter bell he sat upon was fastened with a strap And it chimed a holy vesper every time he tried to nap (Ding ding!) Then old Margery arrived with a knight in shining mail Said she rested on a bench but her vision started to fail Now he is wedged inside her corset like a roasted Sunday fowl And the paladin is muffled when he tries to shout and howl (Let me out of here!) [Chorus] Not another artifact inserted in the rear I am begging you politely, keep the hindquarters clear No more goblets, no more carrots, no more wooden spinning wheels No more rusty fishing tackle or the slimy river eels (Keep it out!) I am at my limit, I am bending all my tongs I am writing out prescriptions but you write these tragic wrongs Take your trenchers and your tapestries and put them on a chair I am the local healer, not the rectal au pair [Bridge] [Hurdy-gurdy solo over a heavy trap bassline] [Fast rhythmic lute plucking intertwines with the beat] They are slipping on the moss, they are tripping on the rugs They are falling bottom-first onto the terracotta jugs If another baron tells me that it happened by mistake I will leave the medical profession, jump into the lake [Verse Three] Here comes the royal mayor looking sweaty and intense Said the scepter is not his, it belongs unto the prince But it features his initials carved deeply in the wood And he is walking rather stiffly through the neighborhood Then a minstrel hobbled over with a hidden tambourine Wedged so deeply in his breeches that it could not be unseen Every time he takes a step, you can hear the jingle jangle Dancing in the plaza from a very awkward angle (Shake it, bard!) [Chorus] Not another artifact inserted in the rear I am begging you politely, keep the hindquarters clear No more goblets, no more carrots, no more wooden spinning wheels No more rusty fishing tackle or the slimy river eels (Keep it out!) I am at my limit, I am bending all my tongs I am writing out prescriptions but you write these tragic wrongs Take your trenchers and your tapestries and put them on a chair I am the local healer, not the rectal au pair [Outro] [Lute fades out, heavy beat continues pounding] The next peasant with a turnip gets the broadsword. I swear to the King. (Get out of my clinic!) [Beat stops abruptly]
