Under The Spreading Cyber-Tree

By Robert "Quenchcrack" Nichols

Upon his spreading derriere, the wannabe smithy sat,
Reading some pages by blacksmithing sages,
said "I wanna try some of that.

He Googled just right for a blacksmithing site,
It quickly returned more than ten,
He randomly clicked on one that he picked,
And landed in olí Guruís Den.

He read all the posts, the questions and boasts,
The terms were really quite weird.
Flatters and fullers, and vises with posts,
And whoís the guy with the beard?

He went to the Pub, a bristling hub
Of chatter well laden with pith,
They welcomed him gladly but he still felt badly,
He was just a wannabe smith.

"Come in and set down, and join in the fun,
and tell us about what you make".
"Where are ya from, and what do you do"
He feared they would learn he was fake.

"I donít have a forge, I donít have an anvil,
donít know why Iím in here right now"
But smithingís an art that Iíd like to start,
If someone would just show me how".

And so he began, he walked Ďfore he ran
And he learned what tools he would need.
A leg vise, an anvil, a forge and a handful
Of hammers and something to read.

To iForge he went, his cash all was spent,
He needed to make something fast,
"To think that all that, is hammered from scrap,
and itís something I know that will last."

When problems he had, or work turned out bad,
He knew just where he should go.
On Anvilfires pages, the wisdom of sages,
for opinions of those in the know.

For copper or stainless, or metals quite nameless,
To weld it, forge or heat-treat it,
Answers were given, hairs often riven,
He quickly learned what he needed.

So loud was his labor, that soon his near neighbor
Came by to check out the racket.
"To get it that hot you must heat it a lot,
but then you just whack it!

The lure of tradition, the heat of perdition
The sound of the anvils ring,
Captured another, a blacksmithing brother,
Now two shared this marvelous thing.

Connected at long last, to histories dark past,
Obscured by many a myth,
Through the sweat and the smoke, their ancestors spoke,
We live through you, Blacksmith!

So off of your seat, thereís iron to beat,
And sparks to fill up the sky,
You cannot find out, what Smithingís about
Unless you give it a try!

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