The Dead-Beat
Wilfred Owen
1893 to 1918
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He dropped,—more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could him to his feet;
Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
—Didn't appear to know a war was on,
see the blasted trench at which he stared.
"I'll '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 all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have him; nor the Hun."
We sent him down last, out of the way.
Unwounded;—stout lad, too, that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"
day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
"That you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"