57599: Inspection

<p dir="ltr"> '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.'<br> Some days 'confined to camp' he got,<br> For being 'dirty on parade'.<br> He told me, afterwards, the damn�d spot<br> Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.<br> '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.'</p>