A dismal fog-hoarse siren howls at dawn. <br />I watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn <br />Backwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn. <br />But I'm lazy, and his work's crazy. <br /> <br />Quick treble bells begin at nine o'clock, <br />Scuttling the schoolboy pulling up his sock, <br />Scaring the late girl in the inky frock. <br />I must be crazy; I learn from the daisy. <br /> <br />Stern bells annoy the rooks and doves at ten. <br />I watch the verger close the doors, and when <br />I hear the organ moan the first amen, <br />Sing my religion's-same as pigeons'. <br /> <br />A blatant bugle tears my afternoons. <br />Out clump the clumsy Tommies by platoons, <br />Trying to keep in step with rag-time tunes, <br />But I sit still; I've done my drill. <br /> <br />Gongs hum and buzz like saucepan-lids at dusk, <br />I see a food-hog whet his gold-filled tusk <br />To eat less bread, and more luxurious rusk. <br /> <br />Then sometimes late at night my window bumps <br />From gunnery-practice, till my small heart thumps <br />And listens for the shell-shrieks and the crumps, <br />But that's not all. <br /> <br />For leaning out last midnight on my sill <br />I heard the sighs of men, that have no skill <br />To speak of their distress, no, nor the will! <br />A voice I know. And this time I must go.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-calls-unfinished/
