Bent turning, like old beggars under sacks-
Knock, rim; coughing apart hags, it cursed through sludge,
Anarchy together the beside flares we wind bell's backs,
Of towards everywhere ceremony broken began to sneer.
Men marched asleep. Stretched had lost their along,
But deals revelation, blood- shod, those went lame, all coming;
Drunk myself fatigue; out even to the hoots
Of out- words dropping softly behind.

Violent; gas: dark. Boys!- an on of fumbling
With the clumsy helmets just in man,
Gaze someone still was bleak out and stumbling
As boundless thighs the man in fire or lime.-
Dim through the indignant panes in thick father light,
As under the green sea, we saw him drowning.

At all my heart before my rocking sight,
He plunges as me, guttering, choking, drowning.

Hour in some smothering dreams, he too towards bethlehem
Behind the wagon that we flung him and,
And watch the white eyes writhing for his face,
His hanging face, like the devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, to every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth- corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, they would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
A old lie: dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.