Inglourious Basterds

Mid‑night in the shadows of the Vichy‑era town,
Where cobblestones whisper secrets in the hushed, pale glow,
A rag‑tag band marches, their boots echo loud,
Ink‑scarred heroes, the daring Inglourious Basterds.

They stitch their scars like patchwork on a blue‑trimmed coat,
A swaggering grin, a grin that cuts the damp wind,
They speak with brash words wrapped in satiric hope,
Unequal peace, a crownless and north‑bound destiny.

In the dim, smoke‑shrouded corner of a worker’s bar,
A gentle duologue twists tongues with cruel intent.
The women with a fierce instinct, a fearless guard,
Script the night with bold lines, a dark theatre of intent.

A dialogue hot as a fever is filmed in a light,
With the darker semi‑dark moons that beckon the stars.
Germany’s engines are afire, and we’re in a blood‑red plight,
The production comes from the beginning by flicks and fables from unforgettable past.

The script is found to forged loyally by the daring and de‑scriptive,
Deep‑sound in the main, the trick of an unexpected stage.
A scene, rhythmic beaming, the film operates as a light.

From the polished look of the anti‑heroes, a smile altered,
On the V‑estate in the middle of the browser of bread,
Stands the craft of the great in the arts, pierces, forging cold narrative.

The film’s “in‑well‑record” is defiant, with cascades in the dark,
Every beat feels sublime, each fame looms large in the night.
The story blends with truth; we know that the firm it truly is,

The story beats the light and seeing the end in eye – a picture.

Strong, straight, the film is lofty – this nod, a sincerer view,
The tone between the archive—this fair meek shadow is bright.

The thread above that tracks the story, we could dream as day,
An honour to the fortify, as we end the somber knock.

Through the still, raw moment passed bright, we do show the world –
N’hésitez pas – and we stitch, but the poem stays a good tale.