The Dead-beat
Wilfred Owen 1893 (Oswestry) – 1918 (Sambre–Oise Canal)
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!'
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 01, 2023
- 49 sec read
- 150 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABBAXCCX DXDAEAE FXG GF |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 868 |
Words | 160 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 7, 3, 2 |
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"The Dead-beat" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/38546/the-dead-beat>.
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