I was a armorer, I was a boot maker,
I was a singer between the wars
I strove for beauty, 'til angry words o'erwhelmed me
with ink blackened bickering between the wars.
I've been to Pennsic, and to far Estrella
And looked to the gentle arts to keep my garden fair.
But there's not but the rot of wilted lilies
A harvest of sour grapes between the wars.
I kept the faith, and I kept hoping
Not for the poisoned quill but for the helping hand.
But theirs are the Laurels with walls around them
And mine is a faith in my fellow man.
Theirs are the crash of silver hammers
Mine is the music of the dancing floor
Theirs are the skies filled with steel beaked Calon Swans
And mine are the songs we sing between the wars.
Come Calon craftsmen, with joy take up action;
Build me an arc to flee this sea of rage
And I will do my best in any arts contest
That does not deny a man an honest gauge.
Peace Calon artisan, sweeten your bitter pen!
Bring back the beauty of the days gone by
Sweet moderation, heart of this nation,
Desert us not we are between the wars.