The Agent

Once upon a midnight dreary, while Q pondered, weak and weary,

Over lines of code and twisted motherboard wires—

   While he nodded, suddenly he heard a screeching, of Aston tyres,

Grinding gears, reaching his ears, piquing his fears,

“’Here come the liars,” Q muttered, “tapping at my bunker door—

           An Agent cruel and nothing more.”

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