The Dead-Beat

Wilfred Owen

1893 to 1918

Poem Image
Track 1

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