Wilfred Owen Poem

Trudging through brown bog up to the knees,

We are swarmed by lice and fleas,

A tornado of green, we to see,

It is time to turn tail and flee.

You turn, back fragmented, bruised like an apple and slowly sputtering, crying from the inside, DIEING from the inside. You turn, hobbling away.

Their machine guns will tear you apart,

as simply as a jam tart,

They will not be sorry,

Oh don’t you worry,

They won’t be sorry for your death.

It is a pig stye,

Of where you will die.

You think it is right to fight and DIE for your country?

You want it for the fame, but I tell you. This is no game.