He looks down at his mud covered boots,
And remembers when he got them,
So long ago it seems, since those exciting days.
Before boys were turned into men.

For queen and country he proudly marched,
Into those foreign lands,
Enjoying all the friendly chats,
Before the blood had stained his hands.

All the training in the entire world,
Did not prepare him for death,
This wasnʼt shooting from a trench,
Youʼre so close you can smell his breath.

In Frances fields laid to rest,
So many of his mates
He imagines them all cold and wet,
Waiting by the pearly gates.

Old Alf with his long moustache,
Moaning, as he always did,
And George, wallet out, showing everyone,
The pictures of his kid.

All standing there, he pictures them,
Along with many others,
Shaking hands smiling faces,
Joining again, long lost brothers.

Then realisation dawns
Across the faces in the lines,
No longer in the battlefield,
No more rifles, knives or mines.

For this is the last detail,
Each man will ever fill,
Along in rows of symmetry,
Their graves are standing still.