'Twas Just a Blinding Crash

Ten thousand frenchmen. raced across the cresy slope, drinking the fierce wine of expectant conflict with every breath,. Our straining chargers thundering in tumultuous rhythm over the short space between. And then all those good grey spears went down as though twere one hand that lowered them. I saw mine own charger rip open the glossy neck of another that bore a frenchman. So dense was the throng we scarce could ply our weapons. One dead knight fell right athwart my saddle bow. The warm red blood spurting from a headless trunk half blinded me. But i now remember cracked under its meteor sweep like ripe nuts under an urchin's hammer.