Well, no, he didn't know; although an assumption along those lines would be fair for a bard. Hannibal isn't the sort who would have ever suggested a song quite so lewd, but as the first leering notes come forth, he doesn't frown in disapproval. Instead his head tilts by degrees to his left, eyes on Cynric. He watches his hands on his lute - now he knows what those fingers are so limber for - and chooses to focus on the skill there, and the powerful tenor in and of its own self, rather than all this talk of culs.

Not that, at the second chorus, he doesn't slowly grow another smirk. He doesn't watch the rest of the room, doesn't look to any of the other occupants who've chosen to join in. It's with his gaze focused solidly on Cynric that he adds his own voice, because stuffy paintings in his mansion or not, he most certainly knows the words. There's a certain pleasure in saying lewd things - it's just not the same sort of smirking enjoyment that the half-drunk voices around them are experiencing.

"Bravo. But you've been playing that much longer than you've spoken la langue de la fleur de lys." He doesn't reach out to touch the lute, or even point, following instinct. Instead he simply gestures with his eyes, a meaningful glance at the body of the instrument cradled in Cynric's lap.