The Latin One

bent double like old beggars in sacks
 knockkneed and cursing or coughing like hags
 men marched on sleeping some without boots
 fatigue drunken deaf still to the hoots
 of breaking gas shells
 dropping softly behind
 but limped on bloodshod
 all went lame all went blind
 gas gas quick boys fumbling helmets in time
 someone still screaming a man in fire or lime
 under a grey cloud dim dark through green light
 in all my dreaming before my helpless sight
 he plunges at me
 choking guttering drowning
 put in a wagon he had to keep pace
 as his eyes melt to his face
 if you could hear blood
 gurgling from ruptured lungs
 if you could witness
 vile sores on innocent tongues
 you would not tell me
 not with such pride and such zest
 the lies of history
 dulce et decorum est
 pro patria mori
 some desperate glory
 pro patria mori
 as witness disturbs the story
 pro patria mori
 stand firm boys breathe the glory