Mommy bore not one,
but two young baby blades.
Born were the scissor sisters,
After childbirth's cutting pains.
Right and soft and fierce,
Left and sharp and fast.
Sharp pairs of silver eyes,
and even sharper silver tongues.
Singing to the moonlight,
voices unsheathing, shrill the song.
They sang of the sea and swordfish,
and the taste of men's heart and bone.
Daddy raised not one,
but two young and dear cut-throats.
Rather than bonding scissors,
he forged each for their own.
From within the smithery,
a clanking clinking sound.
And out the fire-ate twin scissors,
paired blades drew he right out.
