| Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918. |
| |
| 19. A Dead Boche |
| |
| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, | |
| Dribbling black blood from nose and beard. | |
| |
|
|
|
