Didn’t want to be a soldier,
Didn’t want to fight,
Used to have a nightmare,
Of the horrors every night.

When wicked men held wicked guns,
And shot at us with hate.
We tried so hard to save our boys,
But often were too late.

Suddenly a shock went through me,
Rocked me to the core.
A bullet hit me in the chest,
And threw me to the floor.

I saw the man who did it,
Who left me there to die.
Lying there alone and sad,
Nought to do but cry.

I had a lot to cry about,
All the boys were dead.
Only thing to see me die?
The ground on which I bled.

“Why are the poppies such deep red?”
The future boys may ask.
We need a way to tell them,
What they learn is just a mask.

War is a hideous hell-hole,
Filled with blood and sweat and tears.
A place where even the youngest ones,
Age far beyond their years.

Poppies once were white as snow,
Or the brightest dove.
To signify the spreading peace,
To signify the love.

Now they are the colour of blood,
To signify the gore.
The losses and the misery,
That comes with every war.