The poppy is our symbol, for those who fought for
Us and died
On some far off foreign land, and we must remember
Them with pride
Living in the muddy trenches, always so wet and cold
With fear
Thinking of their homeland, and those they hold so
Dear
Waiting just waiting, until the very time itself seem
To stop
Just for a blast of a whistle, then its up and over the
Top
Amid the crashing of falling bombs, screaming like
Banshees out of hell
And on through the choking cordite smoke, and the
Bursting mortar shells
With bayonets fixed, at last they reach the high rolls
Of cutting wire
And into the crack and searching whine, of the hidden
Machine gun fire
On and on through the clinging mud, pass the wounded
And dying men
And never stopping to see the fallen, and never to be
Seen again
On and on always on, into the yellow clouds of drifting
Mustard gas
Eyes streaming, chest heaving, trying to breath through
The deadly mass
Straight into the jaws of death, with no time for prayers
Or tears
The very cream of our young men, now much older beyond
Their years
So many lost their lives in battle, fighting for our country
And our pride
And so many comrades in arms were lost, as they fought
Side by side
Red is the colour for courage, and the poppy is the blood
Of the brave
And we must think of those who gave their lives, and now
Lay in unknown graves
So let us wear our poppies with pride, and remember all those
Who fell
And let us thank god for those who returned, from this man
Made hell

BILL ESTALL 2000