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Bent double like old beggars in sacks |
|
Knockkneed and cursing or coughing like hags |
|
Men marched on sleeping some without boots |
|
Fatigue drunken deaf still to the hoots |
|
Of breaking gas shells |
|
Dropping softly behind |
|
But limped on bloodshod |
|
All went lame all went blind |
|
Gas gas quick boys fumbling helmets in time |
|
Someone still screaming a man in fire or lime |
|
Under a grey cloud dim dark through green light |
|
In all my dreaming before my helpless sight |
|
He plunges at me |
|
Choking guttering drowning |
|
Put in a wagon he had to keep pace |
|
As his eyes melt to his face |
|
If you could hear blood |
|
Gurgling from ruptured lungs |
|
If you could witness |
|
Vile sores on innocent tongues |
|
You would not tell me |
|
Not with such pride and such zest |
|
The lies of history |
|
Dulce et decorum est |
|
Pro patria mori |
|
Some desperate glory |
|
Pro patria mori |
|
As witness disturbs the story |
|
Pro patria mori |
|
Stand firm boys breathe the glory |
