Now the 11 day of November is here
It doesn’t bring very much cheer
The weather is dank and bitterly cold
In mourning for brave men of old.

The war started one day in late July
When Pricip decided an Archduke would die
And made two common nations, united by blood Grind themselves down in the mire and the mud.

Lots of men rushed to sign on
Poor Innocents: didn’t know what would come They would suffer pain, and know such fear
In a dark, stinking hole most of them died
Nobody ever stopped to ask: why?

They must have been afraid
I wonder, did they pray?
Or did they just feel betrayed
By God and their country on certain days.

The list of names on the Menin Gate
A body with no grave: a terrible fate
A whole generation, just swept away
No one will know how many died in a day
At Ypres, the Somme and Passchendaele

Many loved ones were left weeping
Mothers, fathers, sisters and wives
Had lost precious lives
Memories were all they were keeping
Now that their loved ones lie sleeping.

However, one fact I seem to recall
The seeds of the Second, lie in the Great War
The old men watched their children die, like before,
So nothing was changed, nothing at all