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On a cold, dank day in Flanders' Fields,
The air turned to fog
As the guns let loose their terrifying load,
And the soil turned to mud,
Sucking and soaking the men to the bone,
The earth took back its own.
The light from the shells' explosions,
Illuminates men's darkest fear
Of razor wire and landmines,
Of Death stalking through the tears.
Yet still the men press on,
Over the top and up the hill,
All the time pushing down the bile,
Using smiles to mask their fears,
Until some daft officer shouts out,
"Come on lads, three cheers,
For King and Country, Lads,
For the girl you left at home,
For the child you left playing,
Yet to be grown."
So, "Hip, hip, hooray" we say with a rueful groan,
And set ourselves to face the meat grinder of battle,
That cares not for men's lives, nor their souls.
Of that battle, I cannot recall,
And if I could, I wouldn't tell,
It's enough to say that on Flanders' fields,
Humanity was diminished and I saw the face of hell.
Was it right, was it wrong, who can say, who can tell?
Does it really matter when you've survived Bloody Hell?
Brave men fought, so that you can
Laugh and play and sing,
So that you can spend your time
Debating such a thing.
Brave men fought and brave men died,
Take a moment to remember, and
Wear your poppy with pride.