 Dolce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Ann Chame. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock-knead coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Maine marched asleep, many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of humbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But some one still was yelling out and stumbling, and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Known through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. Within 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 sick of sin. If you could hear at every jolt the blood come gargling from the froth-croppeded lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the curd 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, don't she yet decorum est pro patria mori. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for the bravox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, not need, coughing like hags. We cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots. But limped on, bloodshot, all went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you could pace behind the wagon 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, end of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Beggars under sacks, not need, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and toward our distant rest began to trudge. Then marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but some one still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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, dulcet decor est pro patria mori, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulcet et decorum est, by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Icy Jumbo, bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-knead, coughing like hags, we'd cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. In March to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf, even to the hoots of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like the man in fire, or lime. Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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. Dolce et decorum est, pro-Patria Mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilford Olin. Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlyn Cooper. Dolce et decorum est. Bint double, like old beggars under sacks. Knock need, coughing like hags, we curse through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rests began to trudge. Men marched to sleep, many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshot. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, death even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, there's under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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, as seen as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile, incurable sores and innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell with such high zest, two children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie, Dulce et decorum est pro patria morai. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by Donna Stewart, Seattle, Washington, May 21st, 2008. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and, towards our distant rest, began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshot. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf, even to the hoots of gas shells, dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All went double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-knead, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshot. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but some one was still yelling out and stumbling, and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 cod 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Eswa in Belgium in May 2008. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we cursed through the sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas gas, quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 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 cut of vile, incurable soles 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfried Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Foreign Go. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock neat, coughing like hags we curse through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, bloodshot. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime, dim through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless side he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 cut of vile, incurable sauce 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilford Owen. Read by Greg Bathon. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock mead, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Then marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys. An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 cut of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell what such high zest the children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie. Dolce et decorum est, pro patria mori, and a poem. This is a LibriVox recording in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Jonathan Cohen. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas! Gas! Quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime, dim through the misty pains and thick green light as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 file 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. Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori. Like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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. Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilford Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshot. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the wide 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 cut of vile and curable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie. Dolce et decorum est pro-patria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Ann Walden. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, not need, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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, Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilford Owen, read for Liberbox.org by Mark Smith. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys! had ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but some one still was yelling out and stumbling and flouting like a man in fire or lime, dim through the misty pains and thick green light as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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. Dolce et decorum est, popatria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. May 2008. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags. We cursed through sludge till on the haunting flares. We turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas! Gas! Quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, chocking, drowning. 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 his 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilford Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Love. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we curse through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on bloodshed. All went lame, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy elements just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If, in some smothering dreams, you two could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch while the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devil 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 cut of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell with such isest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie, dulce et decorum est, tropatria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen. Red for LibriVox.org by Philippa Jevons. London, May 2008. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock need, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, death even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty pains and thick green light, of under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 frost-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. Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-knead, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 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. Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Secrets. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks. Knock need, coughing like hags. We cursed through sludge. Till on the haunting flares, we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshod. All went lame, all blind. Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone, still, was yelling out and stumbling, and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the white eyes rising in his face, this 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 gut, a vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell with such eye zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, May 2008. Bent double, like old beggars on the sacks, not neat, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep, many had lost their boots, but limp dawn bloodshed. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots, of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys! The next as they were fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and the stumbling and the floundering like a man in fire or lime. Them, through the misty pains and the thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plants at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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 devil's sick of sin, if you could hear at every jolt the blood that come goggling from the froth corrupted lungs, obscene as a cancer, bitter as the cut of vile, incurable sores, uninnocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell, with such a high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie, dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. End of a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Wes Kingston. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched to sleep, many had lost their boots, but limped on bloodshed. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting with clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dimmed through the misty pains and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 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, I've seen his cancer, bitter as the cud, of vile and curable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell me with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie.