Its easy to think of the dead as a number
Not as corpses on fields in perpetual slumber
Corpses that danced and laughed and ran
That now lie rotting heaped man on man
Or, boy on boy, is it right to say?
As the lives of the young was our price to pay
Allowed not to drink nor drive, but certainly to die
As dictated by old men who seemed quite battle-shy
My brother, my father, my son
Who will come home when this war is done?
A year, another, and more…
Dreaded is the fatal knock on the door
Ma'am, your son, was young, true and brave
Alas! He now lies in an unmarked grave
Yes, that young grinning boy you cherished so, God Bless His Heart
Was killed at dawn, and by a shell, his body ripped apart
So
Indeed
It is best not to forget what was truly lost
How dear the lives, how dear the cost
So that we should never again be troubled by war