Posts Tagged ‘boots’

………………….(infantry column)

We’re foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin’ over Africa
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin’ over Africa –
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an’-twenty mile to-day –
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before –
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up an’ down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Don’t-don’t-don’t-don’t-look at what’s in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movn’ up an’ down again),
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin’ ’em,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

Try-try-try-try-to think o’ something different –
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin’ lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o’ you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again) –
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

We-can-stick-out-‘unger, thirst, an’ weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of ’em –
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up an’ down again,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

Tain’t-so-bad-by-day because o’ company,
But-night-brings-long-strings-o’ forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again.
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

I-‘ave-marched-six-weeks in ‘Ell an’ certify
It-is-not-fire-devils-dark or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war!



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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – an ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime –
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. *


*It is sweet and honorable to die for one’s country.

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