The blacksmith hammers away at the forge;
Strike after strike on the anvil he blows,
As every fault, flaw, and frailty is purged,
Once an iron bar, now a crude blade flows:
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Never before has the smith worked so hard,
To make something he truly desired;
Never before have his hands been so charred,
Perfecting something of which he's tired:
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He hones the edge to less than a hair's width,
As his work is quenched in blood, sweat and tears;
He who cuts himself, makes a poor blacksmith,
But his shrieks are not for his clients ears:
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Why does he sharpen a blade he'll not use,
Perhaps his pain is casted for his muse?