what am I getting at? what am I getting at?
repetition and iteration
will these save our nation?
can’t doubt, can’t stammer
got to put both hands on the hammer
what we are, we are – for One and Zero
in the rudiment parliament each of us can be the Hero
heat up the forge, I remember the way
coal still burns and metal bends when the words of Power stay
this summertime tune won’t hold up in winter’s tomb
got to reinvent the moment and rewire the golden loom
pull down your iron, the shovels and rakes
melt all the horseshoes, the copper and tin mistakes.
Want to know my mettle can hold an edge
want to be sure that this wizard is more than hedge
the battle is coming and dog-blood has its own stench
I can see the lightning but can I call it down in a trench?
Am I better on the sidelines, distracting with my bylines
pester like a jester, and checking real combatant’s tie-lines?
I can make toys and I can make shelves
and when the wind is right I can make Twelves
Elevens, Sixes, and Nines
Not all that’s gold is glittering but even the rudest ruby shines.
pull off the forge door, melt it down with the iron store
i’m burning up the shapes interlaced verbs to thee implore
sentences are sentinels that march on the beat,
can’t keep them straight enough to out-fox the darkened feat
when its all gone, and melted and gold
bring down the hammer and beat out the shape foretold
we need blades and blades and blades and the hammer
edges of light that won’t chip in the clamor
my words aren’t elf-made, Moria-born none
no gleaming Glamdring when this kid’s work is done.
but i’m hoping that the blood and lies in my cauldron
can make a bane to hold back a few of the Darkest-son.
Can’t even remember when I laid my words like cobblestones
now I rattle and tattle like a ghost moaning through ship-wreck bones.
Regardless and markless and the path grows darker still
no rhymes left but rubble, echo again like whippoorwill
don’t sleep at the forge, even dross can’t be ignored
these syllables will serve and beat every drop of ink into a sword.