"You! What d' you mean by this?" I rapped. "You dare come on parade like this?" "Please, sir, it's -" "'Old yer mouth," the sergeant snapped. "I take 'is name, sir?" - "Please, and then dismiss." Some days "confined to camp" he got For being "dirty on parade." He told me afterwards, the damned spot Was blood, his own. "Well, blood is dirt," I said. "Blood's dirt," he laughed, looking away Far off to where his wound had bled And almost merged for ever into clay. "The world is washing out its stains," he said. "It doesn't like our cheeks so red. Young blood's its great objection. But when we're duly white-washed, being dead, The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE LEAVES by HAYDEN CARRUTH LETTER TO MAXINE SULLIVAN by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE INCORRIGIBLE DIRIGIBLE by HAYDEN CARRUTH AFTER THE PAPAGO by JAMES GALVIN THE FLAME LIGHTS UP by DAVID IGNATOW PEACE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |