Into volleys of death ride six hundred or so.
Big waxed mustachios. Stiff upper-lips galore.
With such dressage high jinx they charge into the fray,
angled swords at odds with rouge artillery.
They high-five as they go, Lord Ralgan’s goofed commands
evoking all their zest and their Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori
till no one is afraid to be the Light Brigade,
till no one is afraid that tacky clockwork guns
on infinite repeat blow them into heaven
or Baghdad, or Tikrit. The infinite repeat:
The tank’s dressage high jinx. The Yanks’ high-fiving zest.
Lord Rumsfeld’s glib demands for more Decorum Est…
The old lie is hoary.
Scrivner's Pyre 