A century ago
¶ 1
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When the guns finished their mowing
The fields were bereft of grass
Just mud and blood and scattered limbs
Where only stretcher bearers pass
¶ 2
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The lines, as such as they were
Marked by discordant trenches
And the victims multiplied
As the Generals emptied their benches
¶ 3
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The shooting was erratic yet unerring
The bullets found their mark
And the all-too-young conscripts
Lay dying, all across the park
¶ 4
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The stench of rotting flesh
Left a deep, dark impression
But the only bouquet back home
Was the wreath for the procession
¶ 5
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No more rifles for goalposts
No more whistles to be blown
Crosses abound in formation
Where the poppies are forever sown
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