The shells fly through the air,
The first light of dawn stretches,
across this wasteland so bare,
The young Privet Foster is crammed in his hole
His pencil flitting across his paper
He thinks of home and hear's the village bells toll,
"Why am I here again?"
The artillery fire drags him,
Away from his well-worn dream,
Back to the trenches, against his whim
Back to his rifle, and helmet
The clouds part a bit,
To reveal a shining sun,
He grabs his rations kit,
And listens to the Huns,
Just over the hill
The deadly cloud floats,
Over the cold wasteland,
Back in their trench the Huns silently gloat,
And wait for the chaos to start.
The pale green cloud is upon him,
Seeping into his lungs,
He watches the others go first, Bobby, Dave and Jim,
Until he finally falls,
Into the mud of the trenches.
He is never coming home.
The General shouts loud and clear,
Along the snaking trench,
As he finishes the men give a cheer,
And grab their rifles quickly,
Taylor stands and pulls it together,
Well, He's only 16,
And he knows that he won't live forever,
The fear is running all over him,
The guns stop,
A single swallow soars overhead,
Then the men climb over the top,
Into the bare wasteland,
The bullets whizz all around,
One hits home,
And Taylor falls to the ground,
His blood flows freely over no-man's land
He is never coming home.
Erich Fischer trembles in fear,
The Tiger Moth hangs on his tail,
As he tries to pull clear,
The Englishman warms up his guns,
Shots rips through the wooden masts
And he spirals towards the ground,
Somehow he knew that this would be his last,
He takes his final breath,
And promptly hits the ground.
He is never coming home
THEY ARE NEVER COMING HOME.
For those of you who think that this is just another poem:
These men, mentioned here, were real men
They cried like you and I,
They laughed like you and I,
They bled and healed like you and I,
They were real men,
Who fought in a real war,
Who died in that war,
And who are buried in small, roadside cemeteries near Ypres.
Though the Englishmen may never cross the English Channel again,
Or see the White Cliffs of Dover,
In contradiction to my previous comment,
They are home,
Their graves are Commonwealth and German land,
A little bit of England and Germany,
Surrounded by the vast Belgium countryside.
