Peter Handcock:
Go on, read it to us, Harry.
Harry Morant:
Oh, Peter, come on. Come on. You know you loathe poetry.
George Wittow:
Well, there's not much else to bloody do here. Come on, read it.
Harry Morant:
"Oh, those rides across the river, Where the shallow stream runs wide, And the sunset's beams were glossing strips of sand on either side, They would cross the sparkling river on the brown horse and the bay, Watch the willows sway and shiver and the trembling shadows play, 'Tis a memory to be hoarded, Of a foolish tale and fond, Till another stream be forded, And we reach the great beyond"
George Wittow:
I don't want to die.
Harry Morant:
Well, every life ends in a dreadful execution, George. Yours will be much quicker and less painful than most.
George Wittow:
And a lot earlier than most.
Riportata da il 05/03/2025 alle ore 08:54

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