Magic Weapons as Poems

THREE WORD NAMES for swords have become quite the fashion (the original post, although there have been quite a few since). As people have been experimenting with similar topics, I thought that it might be interesting to try magic weapons as short verses in meter, rather than with pithy names. As the poems aren't the most informative beyond the broad strokes, I've also included prose descriptions. However, in-game, identifying the weapons might only yield the poem, not the full description.

 

Three scores and more
Her long blade cuts;
Of forgéd ore
With gem at butt.

 

A sword-staff with a diamond set at the butt of the haft. She may cut out to a range of 60' or may attack three times, each dealing one half of regular damage on a hit.

 

Revolving barrels spin,
and forth jet bullets bold,
his sights a precise fin,
each shot a bite of cold. 

 

An ebony-handled revolver chambered in .44-40. His precise sights grant a +1 to hit at ranges greater than 50', and the bullets freeze and shatter objects and armor they hit.

Flourishing flashing and whirling bright,
Their cuts will set your wounds all aright.
Confident thrusts are another matter,
They will your foes' chests break and shatter.

 

A gold-chased late medieval arming sword. Their cuts heal 1d8 damage in addition to dealing their regular damage (assuming 1d6 for a one-handed sword), while their thrusts shatter the target on a modified attack roll of 20 or above for an additional 1d8 damage.

NONE SHALL PASS,
So her THREE WORD NAME titles her;
END OF DAYS,
Such doom will her baring confer.

 

Drawing this bronze estoc from her scabbard will begin an apocalypse that destroys the world (1d6):

1. By fire
2. By water
3. By disease
4. By earthquake
5. By cold
6. By jaguars
   

A broad dao flashes below the cold moon,
His silvery sheen should not shine so soon.
For when his blade cleaves foes asunder
They need not be buried six feet under.

 

A plain, undecorated dadao that glows faintly in the moonlight. When he slays a foe, there is a 50% chance the body is finely splattered across all nearby surfaces and a 50% chance they rise as a zombie or other undead (hostile to everyone, including the wielder).

Mothers scream to hear their cursed name,
Fathers wail at the whirring blade.
What causes such dismay? A fame
So dire, their weight in the fray.
The cause is this: there's no reason.
Magic lends a fear sans treason.

 

A butterfly knife of gold with ivory and copper handle scales. Despite being completely useless as an actual weapon, when opened and whirled around, every nearby creature (including the wielder) must Save vs Fear or flee screaming.