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 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