By Ian Bowden
In the Wording Hour, so long and cold
The Wordsmith makes his rounds
He carries light his tomes of old
And brandishes his sounds
He forms and reforms in refrain
At forge that glows so bright
No ill his sentences contain
They float through air at night
Indescribable, the Wordsmith's work
For those not of his ilk
Ability in his hands doth lurk
To turn words into silk
No word known is beyond his grasp
No form beyond his power
A wordsmithing hammer in his clasp
He writes The Wording Hour
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