Across the fields of strange Hells, and blood red soil.
In terror smoke and dread, walked Tommy Tinfoil.
“Gone to be a solider mum, like my tin foil men!”
Now the toy fort is in the attic, and will never be used again!
“Your country needs you boy, or are you a coward?”
With his back against the wall, Tommy came forward.
As the fire and thunder crashed, Tommy turned and fled,
Shot at dawn, Tommy’s last words were, “Boys I’m better off dead.”
In poppy fields and Roses of, “Forever England” tales,
A mothers eighty years grieving, looking for Sun Sets Red Sails.
When will we be free of this pageantry of death,
and give back to the young their sacred holy breath?
The warhorses of Jerusalem
wait for David’s lost chord,
and the written word can never speak,
“Blessed is He, that cometh, in the name of the Lord”