by | Mar 26, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

Once a year a time comes round,
To remember those who have died,
In time of conflict throughout the ages,
But sometimes the poppy we chide.

The colour we wear is predominantly red,
The Legion is not going to yield,
In remembrance of men, both the young and the old,
Who were killed in a Flanders Field.

From that day to this we must not lose sight,
Of the sacrifice our service men made,
To keep this Country, as Great as it Was,
A deadly game our people have played.

So when Sunday comes, the band beats its drums,
Then we stand still, a moment of prayer,
In Remembrance of dead, the Country gave up,
Our traditions are getting more rare.

The Red Poppy invokes, a sign of blood spilt,
In pursuit to uphold our traditions,
So Remember the Dead, The Glorious Dead,
And our new war, it’s one of sedition.


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