Bullets and bombs, like flies everywhere,
Blood, bodies, smoke: death fills the air,
Terrified and exhausted, we must continue to fight,
Wounding, destroying, through our lethal sight.
Our uniforms are tattered and inside we weep,
And the nightmares we live, when we wake from our sleep,
Our boots are sullied by the red stained clay,
We half-exist in this tomb, all night and all day,
We hold hope in our pockets to ease our pain,
Crumpled sepia faces, we long to see once again.
Back home, the papers tell such a good story,
Honour, and pride, and decorated glory!
Not of destruction, nor horror, nor gore,
Ghastly, eternal: it will haunt us evermore.
We cry out from within, wanting this noise to end,
Through the dirt and tears, we see a fallen friend,
Blank eyes, wide open, yet he cannot see,
This teenage life, snuffed out so prematurely,
Somebody's boy, somebody's son!
Killed with one shot before his life had begun.
Oh Mr Lloyd George, please help us out here,
Don't let these young voices fall upon a deaf ear,
This Western Front, it isn't what they said.
But we must keep on fighting, 'til we're all but dead.
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