An impractical weapon: it drips, but
never gore, and its birchwood hilt
will hardly fill a child’s hand. I
cannot eat a popsicle, though— not
even a green I have to halve, two lime
blades in one sheath— without a
thought for the Zambonis hijacked at
ice knifepoint and rumors of Good
Humor trucks stuck-up with their
own wares.
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