The Charge of the White Brigade

White cliffs to the left of them, Whirlpool to the right of them, Blown asunder. Into the mouth of hell swarmed the six million. Theirs was not to fathom why. Theirs was but to ride the tide.Half an inch, half an inch, half an inch onward, Burned up in an acid bath, Quagmired within bile and fat, Searching unanswered. Dying to make a mortal mortal match. Misspent outside the woman’s snatch. Nature’s blunder. Their valiant charge would have had a chance, If sent instead inside her pants. One must wonder. end Mr. E. Bates is a poet who likens the quest for love to a foxhunt, in which it is the chase and not the kill that appeals.
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