Hands that kink under their sores,
On the edge of real and imaginary wars,
Use splintered wisdom to barricade the doors,
As time sharpens the lead of good men worn.
No man here is to be bested,
Not even by dull aches from winters tested,
Stood on the footings of the trade they've invested,
The ale, the laughter and the soul well rested.
Underneath a tyrannical sun,
Time takes no holidays,
and Scrap Iron Men make the most
of a days ghosts pay.