Toymakers meet and taggle and cry into beers
the how and why the King Under the Mountain
gave away his clockwork toy army, tuning forks
of carved steel tubes, the kicking gears of Nostradamus,
the swords of Foondun made from the lightest aluminum.
All manner of toy legends pour green over white
in the pubs across toy America. Toymakers sad
and lean in the face. Too often their sketch work remains
only a sketch, and they are reminded of stories
of how the King Under the Mountain once drew
only ideas and daydreams and made no toys,
no braided wood poles, no bronze clapmasks
nor shotput shells. Toymakers, like all of us,
even the insurance men, clap their legends
when only ale or meat can ease the doom
from a new market trend, or promises to automate soon.
Late is the hour for real craftsmanship, save the name-callers,
jingle goers and able makers, those dark men in office.
