They tasted England freedom,
Did the flowers of England’s youth,
They tasted the smell of England’s air,
As if they needed proof

As they went forth to save the world
Their youthful fragrance did abound.
By 1917 the flower was gone,
England’s youth was buried in the ground.

Then England’s flower, it rose once more
And the smell was just the same,
In ‘39 another war returned,
And England’s flower was lost again.

Now, as I look around this time,
This new millennium,
I see England’s ‘flower’ it has returned
But it now seems a different one.

I have to wonder, if a war returned
With modern attitudes and greed.
Are the flowers still in bloom?
Or has England’s garden turned to weed?