With B.E.F. Jun 10. Dear Wife, <br />(Oh blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife.) <br />I'm in the pink at present, dear. <br />I think the war will end this year. <br />We don't see much of them square-'eaded 'Uns. <br />We're out of harm's way, not bad fed. <br />I'm longing for a taste of your old buns. <br />(Say, Jimmie, spare's a bite of bread.) <br />There don't seem much to say just now. <br />(Yer what? Then don't, yer ruddy cow! <br />And give us back me cigarette!) <br />I'll soon be 'ome. You mustn't fret. <br />My feet's improvin', as I told you of. <br />We're out in the rest now. Never fear. <br />(VRACH! By crumbs, but that was near.) <br />Mother might spare you half a sov. <br />Kiss Nell and Bert. When me and you- <br />(Eh? What the 'ell! Stand to? Stand to! <br />Jim, give's a hand with pack on, lad. <br />Guh! Christ! I'm hit. Take 'old. Aye, bad. <br />No, damn your iodine. Jim? 'Ere! <br />Write my old girl, Jim, there's a dear.)<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-letter/
