He dropped,-more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
-Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
“I'll do 'em in,” he whined, “If this hand's spared,
I'll murder them, I will.”
A low voice said,
“It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun.”
We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded;-stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, “Not half!”
Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
“That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!”
The Dead-beat
Wilfred Owen
(1)
Poem topics: brave, fun, home, murder, night, war, wife, voice, young, bold, laugh, heavy, stupid, Valentine's Day, valiant, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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