A Dead Boche

Robert Graves

To you whod read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
Ill say (youve heard it said before)
Wars 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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