Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting, Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting. - Wilfred Owen

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.
Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory
That old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping may something have been left,
Which must die now.