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.*

-from "Dulce et decorum est", by Wilfred Owen- WWI trench poet, 1921

*"it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." Odes, Horace (65-8 b.c.e.)