They told us it would be over by Christmas

          But it was a sepia, suicidal scene

                    In July 1916

 

When

 

The grass was green

          The mud was brown

                    On rolling hills

                              Where trees were falling

                                        On top of limbs already broken

 

The earth was scorched 

          With charcoal birds

                     Covered in mustard clouds

                               Sprayed with metal rain

                                        In choking cordite

                                                  And the bitter taste of hindsight

 

The air turned blue 

          As the bullets flew

                    In a blood red trench

                              With the loss of brothers

                                                  As the wind cried mother

 

 And the world rolled over

          Buried its head till `39

                    Then started another

                                    And the wind still cried mother

                                                 Longer and louder

                                                               This time in colour