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Wilfred Owen - The Dead Beat
Work rating: Medium

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