Red.

A sea of it ablaze,
Silent in their innocence.
A thousand youths amazed.

Seduced by radio and print,
Stalks bending in the wind.
The eyes of politicians glint.

Pulled through the mud; roots revolt.
Conditioned cold and hard.
You live and learn the bayonet, 
and the actions of the rifle bolt.

You get no letters, have no time to read,
Lips caught up in death's boat's snare.
You lose your soul in those months in the mud, 
You can't take time to bleed.

Shellshock batters your fragile frame,
Sleep no more, sleep no more.
Trudge on, young soldier; bury your friends.
For war is a beautiful game.

If luck should have it, you'll have your fun.
White tipped crosses in an ocean of Red,
You get the prize of bending in the wind.
A lone poppy in the quiet sun.

You've been dead for a long time, my friend.
But you've got nothing to fear.
A man who's already seen and been Hell,
has already lived life to the end.