Poems (Wilfred Owen)

<h2> The Dead-Beat </h2> <p>He dropped,&mdash;more sullenly than wearily,<br/> Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,<br/> And none of us could kick him to his feet;<br/> Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;<br/> &mdash;Didn't appear to know a war was on,<br/> Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.<br/> "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,<br/> I'll murder them, I will."<br/> <br/> A low voice said,<br/> "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,<br/> Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:<br/> Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;<br/> Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun<br/> In some new home, improved materially.<br/> It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."<br/> <br/> We sent him down at last, out of the way.<br/> Unwounded;&mdash;stout lad, too, before that strafe.<br/> Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"<br/> <br/> Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:<br/> "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"<br/></p> <p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></SPAN></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />