How wildly wind-shanked windows rattle,
the terror of the banshee battle,
the storm surge seeps through weeping cracks,
to tear apart established facts.
But encased in faith’s dull armour,
blood-crusted in pursuit of right,
this old crusader, resurrected,
stands ready, resolute to fight.
Once more unto the battledore,
to loft his shuttlecock of shame,
but how the howling gale is blowing
through his wormwood weakened frame.
Since his armour’s rather rusted,
ancient rites no longer trusted,
he is tempted by the devil
to genuflect, and then skedaddle.