I am perhaps overly enthusiastic about this "teaching children" thing, and my original post was flippant in tone.
I think it's important for children to know all about the horrors of war. When I teach about WWI, it is certainly not in as lighthearted a manner as my typical lounge posts. When I discuss projecting six foot pictures of mustard gas victims on the wall, there's a reason for it.
I want kids to look at pictures like this...
...and ask to go to the bathroom because they feel nauseous. I want them to understand that Veteran's Day means a hell of a lot more than a day off from school, and that millions of people from all nations of the Earth died needlessly for some rich bastard's desire for "respect" from some other rich bastard. I want them to internalize the pointless destruction and senseless death that comes from war, and WWI and Veteran's Day is a good way of doing it, and for teaching poetry besides.
I want to teach them that "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is just another "old lie."
If a gas mask will help me get their attention and keep it, then hell yes, I want a gas mask.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori