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