| 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? |