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GAS! GAS! QUICK BOYS!
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge Men marched asleep, many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind drunk with fatigue. Gas! Gas! Quick boys!, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets on just in time.
But someone was still yelling out and stumbling, And floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light. As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face.
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie; Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
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