Bashing breaks the new-born day;
Innocence tattered, has flown away.
We stir our eyes from Sandman’s gaze
And break the peace of our laze.
Men who slept well will not wake.
Those left find vermin on their plate.
Where once farmers tended fowl-
Only the Reaper is left to prowl.
Pungent stench of rotting decay
Is the scent of our trench bouquet.
How dreadful just to sit and wait
While our gen’rals just debate.
In this wait we will lose some
As so many do succumb.
Snipers, disease and our madness
Gives midday a blurred soft sadness.
But mourning is not for us,