[Verse 1] Oh Cadira Melange, with your powdered pout, You strut through the tavern like titles ran out. Your fan’s got more grace than your voice ever knew, And your songs sound like kittens with head colds mew. [Verse 2] You claim every ballad that catches a breeze, But I’ve seen your scribes sweating under your pleas. You flirt with the nobles, but only the fair— The rest get a flick and a servant’s glare. [Chorus] So fan me not, Cadira dear, Your lace and lies won’t land round here. You sing like silk that’s stretched too thin, And dance like pride without the spin. [Verse 3] Your gowns are a circus, your hair a parade, You dress like a painting that never got made. Pink for attention, gold for the throne— But you walk like your corset’s carved out of stone. [Verse 4] You say you’re the heir, though your sister’s the name, You toss out your titles like dice in a game. But Pleasance has poise, and you’ve got a pout— And a fan to wave when your logic runs out. [Chorus] So fan me not, Cadira dear, Your lace and lies won’t land round here. You sing like silk that’s stretched too thin, And dance like pride without the spin. [Verse 5] You call me a commoner, plain and unfit, But I’ve sung for the broken and made them sit. While you croon for the mirrors and noblemen’s rings, I sing for the ones who still feel when I sing. [Verse 6 – Revised] Your voice is a court-song sung through a veil, All trill and no tale, no rhythm, no scale. You warble through verses like birds in a fight— And still claim the songs that I wrote in the night. [Bridge] You wouldn’t catch meaning if it danced on your fan, You’d curtsy to satire and flirt with the plan. You’d sing this roast ballad and miss every cue— But the crowd would be stomping and laughing at you. [Verse 7] You carry a servant like nobles wear pearls, To scold those who dare not bow to your twirls. But I’ve seen you trip on your own gilded pride— And blame the poor lad who stood by your side. [Verse 8] You bake up your legacy, frosted and fake, With borrowed applause and a royal mistake. But Gurun remembers the art that was true— And none of it, darling, was painted by you. [Chorus] So fan me not, Cadira dear, Your lace and lies won’t land round here. You sing like silk that’s stretched too thin, And dance like pride without the spin. [Verse 9] You dress for a ball when the market’s in mud, You toast with perfume and call it your blood. But fashion’s not flair when it’s stitched to a sneer— And your boots never walked where the heart draws near. [Verse 10] So here’s to your fan, your pink and your pose, Your borrowed songs and your powdered nose. I’ll sing this alone, no lute in my hand— Because you’re not worth the strings or the stand. [Final Chorus] So fan me not, Cadira dear, Your lace and lies won’t land round here. You sing like silk that’s stretched too thin, And dance like pride without the spin. So sip your wine and miss the jest— The crowd’s with me, and you’re overdressed.
