I am the smith. I feed my melt-pot, fashion carbon steely blades while coulter and the mouldboard stab and break the clod in forest glades. In sultry peace and blood-raised anger, I hammer out my forging trade.
Lockheed, Fokker, Curtis, Hawker, Avro, Gloster, Handley Page, Colt, Beretta, Walther, Mauser, Springfield, Ruger in a rage. Holland, Holland, Boss and Purdey, Woodward, Greener: golden age.
Every atom of the arsenal forged in distant dying sun in unholy Trinity now lends new form to plough and gun. Harry S. and Oppenheimer, Fermi, Teller, what have you done? And did they pray that He may guide us in His ways, now battle’s won?