1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 It’s a bloody war, a bloody war,
Now the count is four hundred and four.
No more to support their football teams,
And with kindred follow Wembley dreams.
To see sons play for their local side,
From the touchline shout and cheer with pride.
Now from the north and throughout the land,
There will be empty seats in the stand.
No more hear sound of ball on willow.
At night no head of love on pillow.
Those sweaty scrums, and last minute tries,
Now all is heard are sad loved one’s cries.
A bairn to be born will only see,
Some pictures of dad, when on mum’s knee.
It’s a bloody war, a bloody war,
God bless and rest four hundred and four.



Yes I cried when I read it back.


Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/404-r-i-p/