'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped. <br />'You dare come on parade like this?' <br />'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped. <br />'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.' <br /> <br />Some days 'confined to camp' he got, <br />For being 'dirty on parade'. <br />He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot <br />Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said. <br /> <br />'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away, <br />Far off to where his wound had bled <br />And almost merged for ever into clay. <br />'The world is washing out its stains,' he said. <br />'It doesn't like our cheeks so red: <br />Young blood's its great objection. <br />But when we're duly white-washed, being dead, <br />The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inspection/
