When they went they marched to the beat of the drum,
to the skirl of the pipes, the cheers of the crowd,
into the wire, the guns and the mud
for King and country, for the glory of war,
When they died did they know what they fought for-
the families who grieved with pride and pain,
their pals who returned, never whole again,
the poppy wreaths laid at the foot of a cross?
Laid each November, by spring they have faded but
our young should be brought and told of the slaughter;
their leaders’ ineptitude, the lies and the myths
should also be carved, remembered in stone.