Dalce et De Coromest by Wilfred Owen 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 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. Quake, boys