To Push the Sword (Thrust)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Ah, gather 'round, ye landlubbers of Point Nemo!
Cousin Hornswoggle here, with a tale of steel and sweat.
In the dusty courtyard behind Reverend Goss's parsonage,
on that cool autumn afternoon, October 15th, 2023,
55 degrees Fahrenheit, breeze whispering through the ivy.

[Verse 1]
I grip the blunted rapier, leather worn from a hundred bouts,
weighing two pounds exact, hilt engraved with old Yorkshire roses.
Reverend Goss faces me, buttoned foil in hand,
his wire-mesh mask glinting in the 4 PM sun.
He nods, eyes sharp as Capoferro's own teachings from 1610.
I lunge, arm extending like the sting of the serpent,
thrusting forward, blade aimed at his guarded chest.

[Chorus]
Thrust! The push of the sword, direct and true.
Parry comes swift, metal clinks echo off stone walls.
Sweat and linseed oil fill the air, sharp tang in my nose.
Pure swordsmanship, no quarter given,
Ridolfo Capoferro would grin from his grave.
Thrust again, feel the rush, the union of mind and blade.

[Verse 2]
He parries with ease, foil tipping my rapier aside,
steps back on cobblestones marked with chalk lines.
I circle, boots scraping dust, heart pounding at 120 beats.
Remember the manual, Gran Simulacro, page 47,
translated by Tom Leoni in 2011.
Thrust low this time, aiming for the imaginary gap,
but Goss counters, his voice muffled: 'Good form, cousin!'

[Bridge]
The courtyard holds our dance, ivy walls watching silent.
No crowds, just the breeze and the clash.
I thrust once more, feeling the weight, the history in the steel.
From 17th-century salles d'armes to this remote ring,
sword pushes forward, innocent as the lesson itself.

[Outro]
And that's the thrust of it, mates.
Pure swordsmanship on Point Nemo.
Till next bout, keep your blades sharp.