Like the metallurgists of yesteryear,
I must melt, mold, mend, and make.
Like a master teaching his apprentice,
Schooling him in the ancient ways,
So too must I impart on my readers my knowledge, my thoughts, my living.
Leaden words of silver roll off my gilded tongue,
(Perhaps someday you, too, shall have gold-plated lips),
Into the warm, receptive ears of followers devout.
You admire my art,
And rightfully so.
But I need you, as surely as you need me.
You see, intricate inlays and ruby-studded pommels are beautiful, yes.
But the sword dispatches a sterling service, soldier.
It is functional, as are my own subversive talents.
The wars you wage with my weapons are worthy ones,
And we ought both take pride in them.
Without your deeds I would have a mere hobby, not a duty.
But I have traded the battle swords of ages long past
For the fountain pen of today, and tomorrow.
Heed my words,
Even as you would kneel before my sword.
The New World Blacksmith