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.
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