The Better Craftsman

He could take what most found, in the time of that Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any Pleasing or greatly passionate way, And, after immersing it into low, blue flame, Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as If it were but a whitened molten lump when Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained Deep within some smith's insatiable forge; Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks; Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand, The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes -- High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal; And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately To his task, shaping something new and Disturbingly strange... While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those Unremarkable fields, An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h Before it slunk back into the lengthening Shadows of a withering age.