The Blacksmith

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A name he does not have
But to call him The Smith isn’t too bad.
Speaking to little and withal his work
He strides along through the murk.
Attending to the squires and their men
Hoping his job will soon come to an end.
Gloomy all day and saucy at night
He doesn’t show his feelings, forced by fright.
Free-simple a man he did not own
Carried off his mantle he barely moaned.
The blacksmith all mighty and strong
Wearing his tabard smock he barely got along.
He pays his tithes in secrecy
To know his means in sufficiency.
The blacksmith a Sot of a man you might rebuke,
Something he always wanted to be is a Duke.
Black, jagged hair all meshed in about
Lifting his eyes with lips all a pout.
He didn’t like the Merchant with no name
But to satirize others wasn’t his game.
To see all, he knows what he must do,
Preferment is something he wants to go through.
Bordeaux vintage and Blancmange to the Extreme
A burgess beggar of secular was his theme.
Now with vengeance and delight
Worked in Dartmouth, out of sight.
Traveling along for this Quest
Might bring out the tempests of the best.
Riding with these rioters has came a blessing
Knowing he’ll gain some popularity would add to the dressing.





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