The poppies fell from the ceiling,
Like a flood of blood red tears,
The roof cried the life,
Of the countless dead,
Like it has for near hundred years.

When we wear our poppy,
Whether it Red, or White or Pink,
We must stand alone,
And take a reflection,
It means take a moment to think.

Why do we make it an issue?
The choice is most definitely ours,
To wear the poppy,
That we choose,
It’s only a choice of which flowers.

So once you have picked your poppy,
You pin it on to your chest,
Surely what,
You decide to reflect,
Is what only you know best?