With cursed pen I craft this villanelle, its shape a blade whose lustre shant fade but of course that don't mean it'll sell. Never-the-less I am sure it shall cut well. Even if this days' end leaves me unpaid, with my curs'd pen I craft this villanelle. This blade struck, echoes a shrill knell; close to flesh, it'll make a man afraid, but of course that don't mean it'll sell. Used with skill, it shall bid you farewell; its thirst and thrust men can not evade. With cursed pen I've crafted this villanelle. If unsold, within my sheath it shall dwell, till a foes flesh stirs it to swiftly invade; once it has slain, this blade I shant sell. It'll serve me well, my blade from hell; a weapon well worth a day left unpaid. With cursed pen I've crafted this villanelle; and death with its keen edge is what I sell.