Wilfred Owen - InspectionWilfred Owen - Inspection
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`You! What d`you mean by this?` I rapped.
`You dare come on parade like this?`
`Please, sir, it`s-` ``Old yer mouth,` the sergeant snapped.
`I takes `is name, sir?`-`Please, and then dismiss.`
Some days `confined to camp` he got,
For being `dirty on parade`.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. `Well, blood is dirt,` I said.
`Blood`s dirt,` he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
`The world is washing out its stains,` he said.
`It doesn`t like our cheeks so red:
Young blood`s its great objection.
But when we`re duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God`s inspection.`
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