An ode to Bladesmiths

This ode sing I to the Guillotine, 
On the block my neck to rest. 
This ode sing I to the blade, pristine, 
From body my head to wrest. 

This ode sing I to the Headsman, 
His heartless task Borne true. 
This ode sing I to the Scaffold, 
And it’s final somber view. 

This ode sing I to the Crimson Veil, 
Drawn down as I fall blind. 
This ode sing I to the Ghastly Pail, 
Its grizzly prize to find. 

This ode sing I for my heart's final beat, 
Its fervor yielding to repose. 
This ode sing I as my Veins deplete, 
Ichor blooming thereabout as the rose.
 
Why then Should I sing this ode, 
Not of my love, but of the blade? 
For the blade has done as its duty bade, 
Yet by my love was that duty conveyed. 

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