…   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,
       His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
       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,
       The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
       Pro patria mori.

                                 --Wilfred Owen