RobinJean

Come gather round, ye holders all, and hear a tale that's true,
of how the icon left the town and to the greenwood flew.
He hung a banner on an oak, he tied a feather in his cap,
and swore that every taken fee would find its way right back.

The Sheriff sat inside his hall and counted what he'd skimmed:
a slice from every swap that passed, from every wallet trimmed.
But down the road a bowstring sang, an arrow split the purse,
and gold came raining on the poor who'd only known the worse.

Less fees, he cried, more freedom, and the merry men agreed,
for what's the good of open books if nobody can read?
He put his chest beside the wall, he left the lid ajar,
and told the crowd, the chain is yours, that's what the arrows are for.

So if you see a green-hooded man with freckles on his face,
a moustache waxed, a bob of gold, a bow held with some grace,
don't run and fetch the Sheriff, friend, don't call the castle guard.
Just check the contract, copy it, and hold the ticker hard.