A ‘Benison’ twas offered midst the storm
Whilst carnage raged, enhancing of known plight
Where shapeless mounds which once were men, lose form
‘Neath acrid clouds concealing them from sight
In paring skin from body down to bones
Along the length of searing flame filled trench
All prattle hath descended into moans
For ‘Brothers’ who were now reduced by stench
At such a time who knows what fate befalls
To each, release is but a chance away
Yet Padre’s words could help if one recalls
Tis thanks we give Creator, come what may
Tho here we are embroiled in “Lord knows what”
Perchance He will forgive each sorry lot