[my miss storm cat]

Originally Posted by Mortimer

Betrayal to right of him,
Betrayal to left of him,
Shiv in wait behind him
Sharp and twisting;
Stormed at with silence from hell,
While the past and present fell,
He had thought it so well
But did come through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of him,
Left of the conundrum.

Why does his glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge he made!
Honour the his light and do not jade,
Noble conundrum!

Tennyson is now rolling over in his grave.

Bad Morte.