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Read more poems by Wilfred Owen: Wilfred Owen Poems at Poetry X.

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The Dead-Beat

Wilfred Owen

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!"

Added: 4 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 17 Jan 2018 7:18 PM | Viewed: 6414 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1224/ | Viewed on 17 January 2018.
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