The Cobbler

You'll find him working every night.
He cobbles shoes till morning light
With no regard to passing time
The left one first, and then the right.
His tiny hammer strikes a chime,
A steady rhythm quite sublime
That sings the tale how wars are lost
Recited in that fabled rhyme.
Foretelling of potential cost
When horses find their shoe is tossed
In absence of the needed cleat.
The vital bridge remains uncrossed
And we resign to face defeat.

So twilight finds him in his seat
Relentless duty incomplete,
So many pairs of unshod feet.
So many pairs of unshod feet.

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