Super fokin important Author's Note Number One: The formatting is screwed up. Something ain't right. The line breaks are too big... Any ideas?

Author's Note: This is by far not a finished work. I slapped this together in about 30 minutes, because I though it would be interesting to start writing an Evgeny Onegin type of novel. A novel in verse. 

This segment of the hopefully much larger story to come takes place around its middle in the actual synopsis. It's still very flawed, there are many issues with flow that need to be resolved, among other such faults. I ask for tips on writing a novel in verse, along with a critique of any mistake you find. Thank you kindly!

- The Author

Vagabond Urgit

A rifle swung right 'round his crooked back,

upon which one may trace a great old crack,

which from the stock to barrel you could track.

This crack did come from one grave day

when Urgit himself to Allah had thought to pray,

for on that day, as Urgit on his carpet lay,

Bedouins from Southern lands did keep his caravan at bay.

And of those fiends, the tall one had been black

another brown, the rest wore on their heads a sack.

A sack of grain, perhaps? Perhaps of hides and ivory a pack?

It mattered not, for they gave Urgit little slack,

when with their swords in hand they cried "attack!"

With all due haste did Urgit grab his blade,

and to his God in determined voice he prayed,

and so began upon his caravan a most unfitting raid.

He parried strikes, the bold, fat Turk,

and as he fought so staunchly with a smirk,

the fools upon horses had lit a hidden firework!

This firework he brought from distant lands,

and now its blaze did spill upon the sands.

Such glorious colors of otherworldly might,

shone brightly in the day, as if it had been night.

The bedouins, those wretched bandits of the deserts vast,

did land their strike, their final shot, and fled with fear at last,

and Urgit looked upon the sky,

thanking God for his reply.

His robes were tainted in red blood,

which now created on the desert sands a flood.

A flood of death and misery it was, of pain and sorrow too.

With thanks to God, however, no blood was spilled too blue.

The royal caravan from Medina had in end prevailed,

and all those present, all those merchants, had in relief exhaled.

"Go onward now, my friends. We shan't be stopped by common thieves!

We ride forever more, to Europe, and our enemy in silence grieves!"

The caravan rode onward, forward, left and right,

And it endured the desert's terrible, hot blight.

They rode, the Turks, for eight long days,

riding on, standing fast, their turbans turned away the blaze.

Despite the courage on their march some fell to craze,

which one could spot in their defiant gaze.

They walked no more, they turned their glare,

to horizons distant, to hot deser air.

They saw oases, they knew they were redempt,

and when they ran to water seek, in death forever had they dreamt.

So the heat and sand had taken many souls,

though Urgit stood still strong, and in sight were his noble goals.

He watched for harbors, he looked for walls,

he listened for the tavern maiden's calls.

And despite his journey's many stalls,

Urgit found at last El Alamein's great halls.