A rusted blade sleeps upon the mantle. Its wilted scabbard: Gone, torn asunder. But who cares? What good’s a trophy for travel? Even if steel’s reforged, And sheath’s rebuilt, What crooked rest would be its hilt? ♪ Once held... Once held by A distraught hand The rusted blade Grew weary. T’was only stone it struck against! Why couldn’t it cut clearly? “You dull, dull thing,” The irked swordsman said, "This ought to teach you To hone your edge." ♪ What’s left of the worst and does what’s left rest in rust? A hammer broken, And forge frozen. Away from frost dew lifts. No drop left to a blade’s sully. A change received quite subtly. Even alone on the roadside clouds subside. There’s the light, oh, there’s the light! ♪ Yet so after all the weather’s weathering Did the rusted blade Ever prove worth restoring? ♪