a poem by Ash sarge, USA

The blacksmith,
Shook his head in shame,
Thieving wasn't his bag,
But he wasn't a saint.
He used his talents,
For sewing up metals.
Bells all shapes and size,
The children's delights,
Taken and pried,.
Bells, a want is to be filled,
A desire, a hidden pact,
A man of gold,
All he stole,
Is angered at the joy,
His being ,
Cannot deploy.
He takes all the tinks,
Plinks and dongs,
They do not suffer ,
To be in his hands,
Making no sound,
They rust cold,
Resistant, little leads.
The man of gold,
Trys each small miracle,
But the melodies,
Are not for sell..
Small fingers reach,
For instruments loved,
But his patience, has run up.
He sends the hated toys,
To the hell he's made,
For insultive metals,
The blacksmith,
Shakes his head in shame,
Still he's comforted,
Out the door in back,
He leaves half.

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