and if in some smothering dreams you too could pace
behind the wagon that we flung him in,
and see his white eyes writhing in his face,
his face, like a devils sick of sin;
if you could hear, with every jolt the blood
come gargling from the froth corrupted lungs,
obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud,
of vile, incureable 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.

-Wilfred Owen
Dulce et Decorum Est.