Let the boy
try along this bayonet
How cold steel is
, and keen with hunger of blood
Blue with all malice
, like a madman's flash
And thinly drawn with famishing
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads.
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.
- Wilfred Owen