Raised he then the rent rag.
White it was with the
resignation of one
whose peace is won
by a distaste for killing conflicts.
Piped with hopeful green
it flapped, forlorn and fine
in a tired, tumid wind.
His face, a map of desolation
lined without laughter,
of peurile pride deflated,
was weatherbeaten,
though undefeated.
Charles rowed and rowed,
with the current now,
whistled low and wanly,
verily unvanquished,
yet not merrily, merrily.
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