Poppies

Beneath crosses poppies still

Waving, standing on the hill

The waste for all to see

Dead men are not free

They were the youth, the mighty young

Sent to war, trained with gun

The men all fell, Run at the Hun!

Now lie beneath hell

The red blood, white cross

Long forgotten covered by moss

Bugle sounds, those that lie

Notes echoes, never dies

Names on monuments

The Glorious Dead, by Kings were sent

Go and fight, in mud and filth, so

Kings could sit in splendid wealth