[Verse 1] A messenger stumbles through the ante-room door, hat in his hand, breath worn thin from the floor— "The Lord Mayor is coming, his lady also, and aldermen trailing in a slow civic row." That trailing procession, the "train" at his back, just means his followers, the whole dignified pack. [Chorus] "More's merry heart lives by good company," tables stretched wide for whoever may see— "The Londoners fare richest at their boards," boards are the tables, not treasure, not swords, just platters and laughter and welcoming words. [Verse 2] But hours before, down by the water's own gate, Erasmus had sailed, and the hour felt late— home to Rotterdam, the scholar, the friend, and More watched the ripples where river met end. He says that his own tears slipped into the stream, joining the Thames like a sorrowful seam. "Reverend Erasmus, whose delicious words express the very soul and life of wit" — a parting that stings, though he won't dwell on it. [Chorus] "More's merry heart lives by good company," tables stretched wide for whoever may see— "The Londoners fare richest at their boards," boards are the tables, not treasure, not swords, just platters and laughter and welcoming words. [Verse 3] Yet one goodbye doesn't darken the hall— old city neighbors are coming to call, the same honest voices that knew him before he climbed any staircase to office or lore. He calls for the "diet," the meal to be spread, the finest of courses, the whitest of bread— no mournful face, no sorrow displayed, just joy for the guests that his city has made. [Bridge] In the kitchen below, the cooks catch the news, stoking the fires, no time now to lose— onions and capons and bread fresh from stone, a house that for one day forgets it's alone. For grief and for gladness can share the same roof, and kindness, not gold, is the truest of proof. [Verse 4] The servants recall how he laughed at their jests, how he dined with the lowest as well as the best— no velvet division, no distance of rank, just stories exchanged and a cup to be drank. So when the Mayor's trumpet sounds down the street, it's not pomp they prepare but a welcome complete— for More, in his wisdom, has always known well, good company outshines any castle or bell. [Chorus] "More's merry heart lives by good company," tables stretched wide for whoever may see— "The Londoners fare richest at their boards," boards are the tables, not treasure, not swords, just platters and laughter and welcoming words. [Outro] Just an ante-room, a knock, and a door— but it shows you the man that is Thomas More: sad for a scholar who sailed from his shore, glad for the Mayor and the feast at his core— London before crowns, friendship before fame, and the best of his kitchen to honor their name.
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