My sword is red, but not with blood,
But from rust from lying in mud.
The blade is blunt, though not with use,
But from idleness and past abuse.
Its temper is quieted, not of exhaustion
But by boredom and lack of caution.
Its hilt is loose though not with race.
But simply because of its old age.
It does not hang there with great pride
But just lies there thrown aside.
Its many deeds once valiant glory
Now remain but just a story
To my blade no life was lent
And I live on to but to repent.