Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

In the mist of a half‑lived Capital of adventure,
Indiana Jones, bowler hat perched on head,
Pondered the relic that tails the brave and the treacherous,
A quest that led him cross‑facing his own dread.

Through mist‑hung corridors of an old Germanic ruin,
Where a preacher’s trembling hand steered the fateful kiss,
The scholar, the film‑goer, and the lord of war‑firing,
Confronted The Holy Grail, on a stone‑bound abyss.

Adventurer in top‑coat, he’d braved the Lion’s lair,
His trusty pistol, his one‑handed swagger, now turned,
Til he plagued by his father’s forgiving, wise despair,
In a world that forever continues to turn.

An echo of the Duke of Buckingham’s sharp gun club,
The car fell, the train cut, yet their story still sang,
Using forbidden keys of ancient Rome—thru Roman Dirh, The treasure's cup laid hands on grateful King.

So the story's still lived, like a bowler’s humble joy,
In a quietly glowing bowl, its flavour alled.
For on the commission of a history, it is a lofty recapture: In the story's breath, there's indeed a glorious tour​.