[ WP ] You 're not about to let the end of the world make people forget about the greatest music written by mankind . You are the Rock Bard of the Apocalypse .

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 Their evening supper of roast pheasant and cornbread was a comfortable weight in their bellies, a bit of chicory boiling in its tin coffee pot above the fire. Hilary Flint leaned on his side against his pack, staring into the flames and occasionally adding a few sticks to the coals. Faith sat a quarter of the fire away, a leather-bound tome on her lap and a small writing kit besides her. Numerous runes and glyphs covered its pages, and Faith resorted to using her own skin as parchment, saving the priceless paper for more permanent thoughts. 
 
 Their horses lay tethered twenty or so yards away, simple rope halters tying them to a convenient fallen log. They had already eaten as well, their hide's currycombed and brushed. 
 
 Flint tossed another twig into the flames, watching as the heat sparked and flashed as it consumed a new source of fuel. 
 
 * “ What are the bugles blowin' for? ” said Files-on-Parade. * 
 * “ To turn you out, to turn you out ”, the Colour-Sergeant said. * 
 * “ What makes you look so white, so white? ” said Files-on-Parade. * 
 * “ I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch ”, the Colour-Sergeant said. * 
 *For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, * 
 *The regiment's in'ollow square—they're hangin' him to-day; * 
 *They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, * 
 An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 
 
 Faith did n't look up from her book as she spoke. 
 
 `` Who wrote it?'' 
 
 Flint grunted. 
 
 `` Just a song by some dead man. Does n't much matter anymore.'' 
 
 * “ What makes the rear-rank breathe so'ard? ” said Files-on-Parade. * 
 * “ It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold ”, the Colour-Sergeant said. * 
 * “ What makes that front-rank man fall down? ” said Files-on-Parade. * 
 * “ A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun ”, the Colour-Sergeant said. * 
 *They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of'im round, * 
 *They'ave'alted Danny Deever by'is coffin on the ground; * 
 *An''e'll swing in'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound—* 
 *O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! * 
 
 `` Who was it?'' Faith insisted. Flint rolled over to face the young elf, a rueful smile on his lips. 
 
 `` Kipling. He was a British poet who lived about two centuries ago. My father always loved reading me his stories.'' 
 
 Faith set aside her ink pen and shifted to look directly at her guardian cum friend. 
 
 `` How did he die?'' 
 
 `` Dunno. He got old; that's what happens with humans. Eventually we all die, rich or poor. Death is the one great equalizer in life, our one constant foe and friend.'' 
 

