Bent double,like old beggars under sacks,Knock Need coughing like old hags,we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge,Men marched asleep,Many had lost there boots,But limped on, blood-shod.All went lame,all blind, drunk with fatigue,Deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind.GAS GAS Quick boys an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime,Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a, green sea ,I saw him drowning.In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me,guttering , choking, drowning.If in some smothering dreams, You to could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in,And watched the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face like a devils sick of sin,If you could hear at every jolt, The blood come gargling from froth corrupted lungs bitter as the cud,Of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues,My friend,You would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory,THE OLD LIE, DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. By the war poet Wilfred Owen,Who himself was killed in battle seven days before the war ended.
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