Stand firm in the trenches of Flanders fields.
Ready the mortar and let it rain upon the enemy.
Send them our grenades and show them our might.
Shut out the cold and think of home.
Trudge on through the sucking, hungry mud.
No matter the risk as long as we win, trench fever is not so terrible a thing.
All that noise is common place… It’s the quiet that seems strange.
Ready the rifles at the break of dawn, bayonets glinting in the sun.
It’s time to rise to no mans land.
Onward men to our victory.
The ground is scarred and pitted but still we go on, the bullets race past, many hit targets.
Men fall but not in vein, they take enemies with them.
They have had their victory and made their country proud.
And still on they fight to defend us all.
They stood so proud, they stood so tall.
The thunder of the guns, the blasting of the bombs, the smoke obscures the way ahead, still they strive on despite the dread.
Untill the haunting silence grips all.
All clears, no smoke, no bullets fire.
And breifly do the opposing sides cease their war so that the brave lost men can be buried safe.
At last they can rest in the embrace of peace.
In spirit they are home once more.
Their sacrifices remembered forever more.
So wear proud your poppy of scarlet red, just like the spilt blood our hero’s shed…
Upon the fields of Flanders.