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This sword has slashed and slain good folk
And hot coals have caressed
And with this instrument, have I lain
My soul to bear; my core to rest...
It’s sure to harm and falter
With fricative formations always ready
Even near the altar
My muscles tensed, my thoughts unsteady
But this sword can also heal
Can soothe like salve a haggard heart
So I will climb and I will kneel
And try once more to hone my art

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Tongue, curser, kisser, blesser,
Hold thyself firm and still,
Enough! Insulter, and confessor,
For cruel and bitter you can be,
Away with thee, arrogant professor,
Professing truths you think you see,
Fumbling clod, ye ought be acquiescer


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