The original song is "Ballade auf den Dichter Francois Villon", by Wolf Biermann. It was translated and covered by Eric Bentley on his album "Bentley on Biermann". Sorry for the mistakes but the song is very fast and also has some German/historical references which I didn't catch.

Please correct me if you can, the lyrics of the original are online but I don't know German and couldn't find this version anywhere.

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My elder brother Frank Villon lives with me as my lodger.
When people come to case the joint Villon the artful dodger
hides in the closet solaced with the wine he loves the most
and waits until the coast is clear but it's an unclear coast.

He stinks. The poet though he must have smelled like rose or dahlia
and like a dog they buried him how many centuries earlier,
and when a "friend's they hang may be" (?) three lovely girls, he'll climb
out of the closet where he hides and booze 'till breakfast time.

And on occasion will sing songs, stories and ballads many,
if he forgets the words I prompt him out of Brecht's Threepenny.

My elder brother Frank Villon suffered much persecution
from cops and church-men who alike desired his execution.
Despite his age he laughs and cries and tells tall tales and "oh" (?)
how he will follow cursing at the "thought of Fatma Goh" (?)

What did she do? I ask but don't press my interrogations,
it's a long time ago and he with all those supplications,
with supplications Villon has quite often wriggled out
of dungeon and of prison time, of that there is no doubt.

With all those supplications V. off-times escaped the noose,
he did not wish his neck to feel his rear end swinging loose.

The vanity of rulers had for him a smell infernal
into some asshole he would creep and then make it eternal.
Oh yes, my room-mate Frank Villon he laid it on the line
so long as he had good fresh air, grub and a glass of wine.

"While stealing or by kissing" (?) he fine shameless songs would sing
as free as burning wood but now he sits there stammering.
The vodka snaps from "outless hove" (?) just bring on his migraine
and "Dee" (?) is hard for him to read, the German gives him pain.

They taught him Latin when he was a child at school but when
Villon got older, he preferred the speech of simple men.

If Marie visits me at night, Frank Villon for our sins
goes strolling on the wall which scares the guards out of their skins.
The bullets pass right through Villon but not a drop of blood
flows from the bullet holes, they make just red wine in a flood.

Then for a joke he makes a harp out of the wall's barbed wire,
the guards accompany the tune and keep time while they fire
and only when I am almost drained dry by good Marie
and she gets up to go to work down in the town does he

return and cough up several pounds of lead with much to do,
he curses yet he's full of understanding for us two.

But nothing here can long be "heard" (?) and out came this whole story
There's order in our land just as in seven-dwarf territory.
There came a bang upon my door one morning around three,
our people's own police had sent three of their men to me.

They said to me Herr Biermann, you are well known to us all,
you are loyal to the DDR, you'll hear your country's call,
is it not true now -don't be scared- that for about one year
there has lived here a certain Frank Villon who's got red hair ?

He's a subversive and at night has offered provocation
to border-guards. At this point I made this mild declaration:

With his fresh songs he's tried to make of me an agitator,
I can tell you in confidence I do not like the traitor,
if I'd not just been reading what Kurella has asserted
of Kafka and "the Bat" (?) I fear I would have been subverted.

I'm glad you came to get this crook, he's hiding in the closet,
I gave up such impertinence "when I was seven. Was it ?" (?)
I am a pious church-goer, a "cusp of milk toast I" (?)
a docile citizen, I sing of flowers and softly sigh.

The cops then trough themselves upon poor Villon's closet door
but all they found was what he'd thrown up on the closet floor.