On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Raglan Roc was a Warlock, and
He lived up on Mandrake Hill,
Up where the witches gathered
Once a month, for a coven spell,
He tended his herbal garden, growing
Mugwort, sage and ash,
Supplying the monthly coven, though
He never would deal in cash.

They paid him in philtres, magic charms,
And the odd love potion or two,
For some of the witches were younger ones,
He’d say, ‘Let’s try it on you.’
And they would giggle and ride their brooms
Right into the witching Dell,
To check out the Warlock’s magic wand
As he put them under his spell.

He didn’t believe in favourites
But welcomed more than a few,
Till half the coven had buns in the oven
And didn’t know what to do.
They got too heavy to ride their brooms
Back down to the village street,
But waddled along the cobblestones,
Tripping over their feet.

And husband’s, down in the village square
Would mutter and moan, nonplussed,
‘Here comes another, a magic mother,
It should have been one of us.
The place will be full of ankle biters
If this don’t come to a stop,
All with a set of tiny horns
And looking like Raglan Roc.’

They followed the witches up the hill
On a coven day in June,
And each one carried a baseball bat
On that sunny afternoon,
They played a tinkling game that day
On his ribs and his Warlock form,
And by the time that they went away
They’d chopped off his favourite horn.

The witches no longer go up the hill
They say it isn’t much fun,
Not since the Warlock lost his pants
And his flirting days are done.
They get their herbs from the corner shop
And they weave their spells ad hoc,
While ankle biters still roam the streets
To remind them of Raglan Roc.

David Lewis Paget

dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

Amid the verbose magicians
Seeking kinships
And sailing deep into their arduous mists
Watching them peddle their afternoon
To a handful of smiling children holding their breath
Amazed in gentle body trick

The older men of age
Leaning deep into their creased chins
Stroking the grizzled fat
Blinding light of soul
Staring down the barrel of life
Striking the enemy one last time
And yet smiling
sober,
Met of match,
taking care of their kids.

Then there's the cold-clocked dudes
On the phone pushing buttons
In a button-up raglan
Lost indistinct
the promised land
The golden shores swept away by
inconvenient time
Left shopping in an auto mall
"Won't you look at the time?"
7.07 APR
Boy what a steal!
And Steve maddened and screamed
As the lines blurred instinctual between opposing teams
And the oven dinged a great alabaster slant
Leaning towards the new millenitants

Rise up!
***** the wheel
Turn the axel from pistons
To alkaline metal
And doubt with great monumental
Quality
That the machine borders all
And we cannot retreat

And while I sift bouyantly between the waves
Searching the puzzle piece within the molecules
Reconnecting with the things
And representing
dreams on a 66 hertz screen
I call rather failing
Towards a black rocked shore
Towards the sweet Dorigen
Of my dreams
Finding an integral of time
And space

And calculating the intangible *****
Of my desmise
With the imaginary constiutent
Of that lighted mind.

I could never be Raglan the  knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored  Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.

The hydra-headed janiform neurergic neves sparked by jangadas of bangtail silverskin therbligs of ostentatious stack impudent against inveterate nomothetic scrupulous dirigisme in niaiserie because of incorrigible rhathymia guarding graft as eunomia for aerophores and volplanes of nidamental wrackful filigrees in subversive rudenture complicant to the latticework of nimonic scarpetti scansorial to every specter of ekka sphecoids because of a firm constitution of mackintosh statolithian perdurable protean verve in chameleonic tricotees of steeving suretyship buddling bait-and-switch bumboats and cozening paltripolitan smug with hauteur and aplomb surnominal in every arena because of immarcescible stipulations of svedberg inculcated in criminal umlaut leveraged deftly by ulatrophy, virgation and organizational opodeldoc eclaircise stripteases of purebred cyanotypes of equanimity despite tilt and tilt immune to gyrating ginglymus of linear crackdown and cubic idempotence in overlocked sciamachies entangling osnaburg and polity in quantum thigmotaxis precisely orthogonal to orichalc sesquiplicated by organity boundless to degrees of variegation in revalorized exchequer beyond snooperscope peers skittish on marksmanship and precise stenography maximalist in vestigial obsessions. '

Yet the  revenge of nodalities of nevosity the coquetry of invidious vendetta spurns peremptory rudenture brackish in tarnished hues of handspiked rackrent subterfuge backfired in implodent flashbang casualty via oersteds incidental to odonterism in frenzied bangtail blemishes hampering obvention favoring broader dirigismes armipotent with ixiodic argali keystoned endlessly into ravenous interramifications immensely integral to the surface area of negotiosity (the circumjacent proctor of the conservation of chryselephantine duramen of the interpunction of  sublimated bulging catalysts of numbat volumes gaseous only in hypothesis yet fungible in categorical interdigitated vulcanization permissive of protean permutation immunifacient to entropy in monolithic suffrutescent latency readymade for exigent subrident fiascos) that preserves mainsail fulcrums of stochastic stabilization of the composite quantum uncertainty of volatile aleatory variances in an unbounded system ratcheted by subduplication. A stupulose adjutant preservation of firm rubefaction contrary to jack-assed adiathermancy compital to elflock because of ideological bowdlerization of balanism simultaneous to wrackful adenalgia and dizzying balefire confirm the elephantine pedigree as an acroamatic commode which (even in baseline disagreement derived from tangible acharne pivoted on several centrifugal cultural aborted acerbations) absterges the trauma of oneirodynia with cynosure dancette subsidiary to meritocratic afterclaps of azoth finessed in clockwork filipendulous auxologies slightly sunbittern because of echard reductivism and maximalist emphasis on perdurable swells in the radial radiance of spherical umstrokes pliable to expansion of scale and scope never finifugal nor neglectful of the potential backfires of the autecology (very predictive of malaise in attemperment) of alembicated vicissitudes of deterministic akinesia subservient to regnant finite bounds of possible contortionists of interramification yet decided by preterition.  Yet despite the pedigree of a volplaning society partial to interlamination in sordid dereliction the swape and swanskin of standpipe realism augmented by orthodox adherence to intemeration of subternatural banderols because of overhailing innitency against indumentum becomes a stunsail inglenook of all terpsichorean modular realities conceived by freethinkers despite froward agitprop styming sufficient latitude to pinpoint with imputation reformatory agenda to imbricate an idiorhythmic attempt at ichnology subsumed by a supreme confidence in oikonisus and faithful fidelity combined with the iatromathematics of sociogenesis to  formulate a pragmatica sufficient to streamline stradometrical stolisomancy of a comported dirigisme to conform to bronteums of blaring social justice imperative to broader civic decorum such that both the barmcloth and the ashplant unite against  the worst stulms to manufacture a diplomatic coherence of stibadium cognizant of imperative aberuncators slurvian and dilatory to orthobiotic optimums to unionize public morale and private discretion to appoint emergent meritocracy tholing the collective triune causal mandate of anti-flautino, anti-fracedo, anti-specular inertial impedimenta to bionomic swapes compatible with the integral stipulations of the suretyship obliged to tangible stipulations relatively intransigent to systematic rejuvenation despite prerogatives of oystercatcher eyeservice ponderous to the overall business model but transcendental in deontological value. Chomping vinegarroon skullduggery partisans embattled with jordans of acciptrine papaverous rapacity because of mehari metaplasms have largely been transformed by the backfire of acarpous vestiges of historical inantion but the reprieve of callous jockeyed cladogenesis in nomogeny is so sussultatory it remains and remands the custody of a Republic to anemocracy as a tribune to acipenser overcoming acyanopsia and acyesis simultaneously in gambados of happenstance virtuosity referential to adjutant aggiornamento that transubstantiates prurience and cultural larceny into reclamation of spiritual provenance and providence transcendental and regnant over the affairs of men. Adipocere refrain by all pointillism policing a system where veridical paranoia is estimable in the jurisdiction of bugaboo transmuted into hobgoblin subterfuge is both an entangled thixotropy of mutual abseils of afterdeck of  wrepolis parturition of willowish seguidilla bartered against sheer leverage of mandarism of kitthoge kirking with yogibogeybox cryptadia siderognost magnets superlative in wrangled telematic tantiemes of adjutages of sericterium “generators” bequeath to scientific leverage sledging nimiety on varsal vastation of vardles versus human capital exorbitant because of simpered advection funneled through aedilles macroscian and cyclonic to watershed gullywashers of evaporated joy and frowsy taxidermy liturgical in aerodonetics outmantling aloof affeer nucleotides of overhaul deprived of Anglophonic reach and cultural zest.

The allemande dodges abaculus aardwolf vaalhaais raadical in harling handspikes of abvolts hammerkopping specious whangams halyarding affiance to habanera exosculating sublime eurthymics into ethonomic warbling vacillations of tentation espaliers gradately distant from apophasis desiccated by the preeminent precedence of epigons morphing into epigones whipstaffing oppidan octrois of vaccimulgent brehon eruciform only to brickbat devolution stymied and sweltering among raglan obsolagnium plevisable to parabasis of paralytic ichnition of cookie-cutter iberis of cultural uvala by polyphiloprogenitive hibernation urubus infiltrate with surnominal reach to embattle newfangled controversy with inveterate propinquities to prejudice, stature, largesse, prosperity and capital command goading sciamachies among sudd, wroth, sastruga, striga and woonerf internecine to mummified wittols of scofflaw Marxism against boskets of woodreeves glinting tantalized prerogatives at clueless doytining websters of jamdani steenboks walleteering only to agathist zero-sum pullulated divergence (too velocious in psitticism to garner traction) in vehement diaspora odonterism (the disheveled tombola of wadmals of yonderly clarity from yellowback fortunes of yarak bonanza) such that proxemics actually redoubles the fortunes of falsehood at the expense of integrity in finifugal frames of projicience while patient proband proairesis of piscary leverage monotrochs inveterate scruple delaminated by rigid metaplasms by tympanies on baseline primordial psychogony to keystone apperception into renewable therbligs of bias telarian in sagacious silence at officious gambados of intellectual elitism of tautomerism of tachytelic bacillicide pregnant with rumchunder progeny vernalized into precedents of pedigree because of ventrad verglas whorling into sussultatory frenzy amicable to audiences once divorced from the gilberts predicating glottogonic gleeds of samizdat freer than ever in gimballing supplications to gavelkind viscid because of virtuosity embalming partisan divides because of jiggermast kickbacks wergilds for cultural acharne in rabid fuming crestfallen jurymasts of plighted failure (or ignored pertinacity) as the predominant caenogenesis of the few prolongs the prosperity of the many. Simultaneous to the predicaments of biocenosis of cenobitic realpolitik ceratoid on stringent cathexis to normative fringes frigid to Keynesian bonanza the enthralling chabouk of underdog chamfrains jockeyed on champaign inheritance proven by the liturgical emergence of recondite chapbooks garnering chevet in chrematistic gnotobiology prove singular when stricter proscription of plenary coemption because of the forbearance of supervenient idealisms  that abrogate crudity engage in coquelicot chirapsia buddles elements of alloyed negentropy from chasmogamy to negate emphatic negannepaut and harvest nepenthe in nepionic perscrutation on grounds of grievance always parallel to neutrosophy nidamental in a bonce of several interchangeable theorems of bontbokian boyau redacted in incorporation of some minor tenets of omphalism as a bricole against swarf clothed with broadcloth niceties to annul specular indigence among spodium with clever centralization in orichalc edulcorated against institutional effulgence and instead focused on ekistic agiotage fond of altricial largesse dabchicking popular morale in pious fidelity to the verdict of azoth mathematicism in mantissa mediated by scaled oligopsonies of initial auncels (due to poor trade agreements and gouged alarmisms with unwieldy disproportionate burdens on the United States) balancing once baragnosis becomes apprehensive of being apprehended to the extent of prospect checkmating specter in the augend of social mobilization.

The Army of Lord Cardigan,
Its uniforms so smart,
The men, although they had never fought,
Dressed such, they looked the part.

The Fourth, the Thirteenth Light Dragoon’s,
The Eighth, the Eleventh Hussars, all made,
If you include the Seventeenth,
What then they called The Light Brigade:

Mounted, fast, but lightly armoured.
Launched at guns as they retreat,
And cutting down the infantry
With thrusting Lance if e’er they’d meet.

Skirmishing; reconnaissance.
The Light Brigade took pride to be
Proud horsemen, hard and ruthless men,
Well - British Cavalry.

And Brudenell, ‘twas his, the boast,
Had dressed his men to please his sight.
His officers? Yes, they looked like fops,
But make no bones, those men could fight.

‘Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, follow the enemy, and try to prevent them carrying away the guns.’

General Raglan drafted orders,
He could see what should be done.
He sent to Lucan via Nolan,
Ordering him to charge the gun.

But Lucan redirected Nolan,
‘Speak to Cardigan,’ the man
Who, when told ‘attack the Russians,’
Said ‘Well, if you think I can.’

‘But which guns does my lord desire
We charge, what does the General say?’
And though he full knew where the guns were,
Nolan waved a different way.

‘There, my lord, there is your enemy.
There, my lord, the Russian gun.
There, my lord, do not you see?
It’s that way, lord, that fate must run.’

Well may you ask, why did he do it?
Was Nolan not an honourable man?
We will never know the reason.
Ponder that as best you can.

Meanwhile the men sit restless mounts
Which shuffle, snort, dressed by the right.
Tossing heads, their reins held loosely,
Each and all can sense the fight.

What Cardigan (called Lord Haw, Haw)
Thought at the time it’s hard to tell.
But someone heard him murmuring
‘This charge will finish Brudenell.’

Then he wheeled about on Ronald,
Drawing forth an untried blade.
He trotted out to centre front
Of those they called the Light Brigade.

By troop, by squadron, sabres drawn.
Hussar and Lancer, Light Dragoon,
Each regiment Royal duty sworn,
Each man to die and that but soon.

And on whose flanks, there lay high ground,
From watching Russian comes no sound.
While in the valley still and hot
Rings out the order, ‘Walk-march, trot – ‘
—————
‘Bugler, sound the advance’

And as we canter forth the guns begin
To range with ball this Light Brigade, for history shaped.
Poor Nolan lies with rictus grin,
The first one dead, the first life *****.

The thunderous noise, the gathering mist,
Hold in your horse, dress by the right,
Your sabre drill, your strength of wrist,
Will see you through the coming fight.

The bugler’s sounding gallop now.
Through dense, white smoke the canons roar.
Each rider urges on his horse,
Midst raging death demanding more.

The Thirteenth point, their sabres reach.
The Seventeenth, their levelled lances,
Close in you *******, fill that breech,
Adjust your dressing (sidelong glances).

And in the crashing, frenzied fight,
Milling shapes that cut and ******
And loom and rage and loudly cry in fright,
Swiping, slashing as they must.

But some are through.
As from the melee we can hear the shout,
(Mrs. Dubberly sips her tea; admires the view.)
**, Light Brigade, form threes about.

Whimper the wounded crouched in pain.
Screams the horse again, again.
These are the victims, these and the slain.
Pray let the memories all remain.

Lest we forget.