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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Inspection</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.<br>'You dare come on parade like this?'<br>'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.<br>'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Some days 'confined to camp' he got,<br>For being 'dirty on parade'.<br>He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot<br>Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,<br>Far off to where his wound had bled<br>And almost merged for ever into clay.<br>'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.<br>'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:<br>Young blood's its great objection.<br>But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,<br>The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen">Wilfred Owen</a></strong></div>

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