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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536274" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Letter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536274" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">With B.E.F. Jun 10. Dear Wife,<br>(Oh blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife.)<br>I'm in the pink at present, dear.<br>I think the war will end this year.<br>We don't see much of them square-'eaded 'Uns.<br>We're out of harm's way, not bad fed.<br>I'm longing for a taste of your old buns.<br>(Say, Jimmie, spare's a bite of bread.)<br>There don't seem much to say just now.<br>(Yer what? Then don't, yer ruddy cow!<br>And give us back me cigarette!)<br>I'll soon be 'ome. You mustn't fret.<br>My feet's improvin', as I told you of.<br>We're out in the rest now. Never fear.<br>(VRACH! By crumbs, but that was near.)<br>Mother might spare you half a sov.<br>Kiss Nell and Bert. When me and you-<br>(Eh? What the 'ell! Stand to? Stand to!<br>Jim, give's a hand with pack on, lad.<br>Guh! Christ! I'm hit. Take 'old. Aye, bad.<br>No, damn your iodine. Jim? 'Ere!<br>Write my old girl, Jim, there's a dear.)</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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