Vulcan's hands,
Malleable steel,
Forming lines, shaping valleys,
The body aglow, hot, and supple,
A peak, a rise, the curve of a thigh,
All taking shape, from the Forge of Desire.
My breath, the bellows,
Your skin, the flame,
I burn you to ash,
Then shape you anew.
Venus'envy, Venus' bane,
She'll destroy you my love,
'Ere I utter your name.
You are a craft, I may never equal,
My mark is upon you, it never will fade.
I cannot sheath you, your will is your own.
You can have any,
And sometimes you may.
But never forget your Smith, your Lover,
For no other man is your blade quite as sharp.
His sweat was your blood, His labors your manna,
And all men save he, have defense from your edge.
These other men may polish and wield you,
And give you surcease, from the Smith's dreary shop,
But still he toils on, your glory he'll match,
To forge, of himself, your scabbard, at last.