With a name, a face, and the most tenuous of filial associations, he will weave a narrative so sterling, so intricate, the veracity of which even the most fastidious elder would be loath to question.
His repertoire, replete with exaggerated epithets, carefully crafted to unlatch the wallets of the self-important. After all, what good is wealth if it cannot be flaunted, and flagrantly so? What good is pedigree if it cannot be lauded with petty praise? So he sings, sensuously stroking bloated egos. One hand caressing the megaphone, the other deftly maneuvering crisp change into his waiting pockets.
With keen eyes, he discerns even the most unassuming of the gentry (for he sees the clues of gait, complexion, mannerisms and clothing), but for the right price, he will tolerate the impotent bluster of a generous commoner.
It matters not if his appeal is to the largesse of a looter, or to the goodwill of the purebred, those are but minor considerations where money is to be made.
We will never know if his odes are heartfelt, even if the subjects are truly deserving. For the praise crier, this is a job and that it pays is enough.
