On The Light Brigade
The Regiment had been in the hills,
An army in facts and figures,
Be glad they rushed!
The legend becomes fact.
We were cut off in the columns,
To cut our way we were cut down.
It's a valley of the badly-printed and blurry-colored.
The Russian end of Death.
Grapeshot on each side,
The torn and flying metal,
Swept proudly past, glittering.
Everywhere used in splinters.
The carcasses of Aberdeen formed.
Errol Flynn is now ensconced in shot,
Beneath him, Lord Raglan had gone wrong.
While horse and hero fell.
The aristocratic, self-centered generals,
Frantically waving their second-hand opinions,
Went calmly back to Death.
The best of humanity, so I despise them.
This poem has photonic circuits,
It's still a quart of mockery.
I chronicle war in the autumnal equinox.
I am, however, beset by soldiers.
Go to the world's consciousness,
Explore thousands of the sabre strokes, shattered.
Keep checking back for modern fire-power.
Pledge your fists! My poem is lucidity.
The poor little army departed, limping,
Crying, "a little pity," for the scraps.
Theirs was not the only one had blunder'd.
And all the world wondered,
Do our soldiers in their glory fade?
