MY CHIVALROUS KNIFE
My chivalrous knife shall cut you and say thanks.
The tankards at your side shall bloom and fill
with blood - and I shall bow, and walk away.
The chance you take will take you out at
the knees. What you chance will be disaster.
I shall come running, but only to cart you away.
-
This is fortune-telling through the eye of a needle,
the rim of a glass, something horrid, filled with a boiling
soup of blood and mettle and bone. Those witches from
Macbeth, they were mine, and they are who I own. To this
day they do their work for me. Forget me not, my flower-boy,
I shall never go away.
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