It’s cliche, but this is the type of thing I produce when left, bored, with a pen and paper. Or napkins. I hate dinner parties.
There was a man of copper wrought
So the children all were taught.
A man who with his soul had bought
Asylum so his wounds were naught.
In furnace dire was warrior born.
From Father Earth his frame was torn.
For off his head no hair was shorn.
Upon the mount he guards forlorn.
Until upon that benighted day
Some hint upon his thoughts did play
Of some more proactive way
That he might guard his ward than stay
So from the mount did he descend
The men of nation he sought to rend
From foothill’s side to ocean end.
Now that we needs-must mend.
And so must now I ask, my friend
That you aid our oddest blend
For to this untimely trend.
We must now put a final end.
Feel free to point out any internal contradictions or fix the meter. This may have been inspired by the song Ironman by Black Sabbath