The English Say, Yours Truly,

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

No-man's Land Under Snow Is Like The Face Of The Moon: Chaotic, Crater Ridden, Uninhabitable, Awful, The Abode Of Madness.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

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.

My Friend, You Would Not Tell With Such High Zest To Children Ardent For Some Desperate Glory. The Old Lie: It Is Sweet And Fitting That You Should Die For Your Country.