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The Creed Of A Lost Warrior

In Memoriam 2nd Lt. Wilfred Edward Salter Owen MC (1893-1918)


I'm sat in this bed, maimed and pumped with shell -
My ever present cue of the walk out to hell.
I shake your hand but then I'm earthed with a thump
Since that's just a dream for this immobile stump.

You ask about my medals - my distinction prize -
Yes here they are: those 'discs to close my eyes'.
My ribbons of glory? Torn off as the shrapnel flew -
Those 'scarlet shreds' that gave me hope for skin anew.

But that's just plundered poetry. You're not really there.
You've rationed your visits to the few you can bear.
Ray-Ban'd frag wounds, pissing in a pan -
My latest endeavour? Yeah it's the best I ******* can.

But I want to know the truth, behind the play -
The truth of why you didn't come today.
I shot you some lines those terror nights designed -
So you rightly shunned my pathetic broken mind.

There amid my banter, it rose its head -
That blinkin' belief that I'm better off dead.
But now I've made good use of that lost poet soldier -
I've plundered his words to help me grow bolder.

There is a creed of one young warrior
That pushing up daisies beats growing older
But Owen hates the dust - for life he'd dare
To have one year with 'nothing more than air'.

I want you to know that I read some braille today
And I lunched with a starling at my window bay
And I'm listening hard to what they keep on saying -
Those ministers who tell me what's better than praying.

There are times I may be wrong, though it's truth I mean to say
On life - on death - on why you stayed away
But sometimes it's okay to have a bloody thought -
Tell it like it is - don't distort.
One thought that gives me strength and a dose of cheer
Is that you will never smell any blood-soaked battle gear
Or be sat in this bed in a sweat of retching fear.

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