Thursday, February 1, 2018

A Dead Boche

A Dead Boche
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To you who’d read my songs of War
 
And only hear of blood and fame,
 
I’ll say** (you’ve heard it said before)
 
”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,
 
Today I found in Mametz Wood
 
A certain cure for lust of blood:
 
Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
 
In a great mess of things unclean,
 
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
 
With clothes and face a sodden green,
 
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
 
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.
Raul,
THE POET 

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