large/9551/warpoemssiegfriedsassoon_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/warpoemsofsassoon_37_sassoon_64kb_3
large/9551/warpoemssiegfriedsassoon_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/warpoemsofsassoon_37_sassoon_64kb
English
9551
THEIR FRAILTY He's got a Blighty wound. THEY'RE FRAILTY HE'S GOT A BLIGHTY WOUND
rammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; "We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!" I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls, Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home,"-- And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. GLORY OF WOMEN You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place. You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops "retire" When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. _O German mother dreaming by the fire_, _While you are knitting socks to send your son_ _His face is trodden deeper in the mud_.  SECTION THIRTY SEVEN OF THE WAR POEMS OF SIGHFRITS ASSOON BY SIGHRETS ASSOON READ FOR LIBERVOX DOT ORK BY MARK HISSONG
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