Your charity, washed in flame,
opens wounds, raising cheers,
the charge of the Light Brigade
fueled with a five-watt bulb.

The masses, freed, lose their homes,
fight for life, wait to vote,
half a league behind and lost,
all saved and sacrificed.

Your brave soldiers fight, too few,
storm’d at with shot and shell,
ride from the valley of death
less more than a thousand.

How long the charge, stumbling,
with fire from left, right, front,
hailed while all the world wonders
at where your fury ends?