Painting The Streets Red With Poppies Poem by Royston Nella

At the whistle blast I went over the top.
I just kept on going and would not stop.
As the barrage of bullets whistled by
I knew that if one hit me I would die.

Why such bloody carnage and why such hate?
Why should I let a bullet seal my fate?
But I will not falter or reason why,
I'll do my duty, and if needs be die.

So for you my dear, I have paid the price,
and bought your freedom through my sacrifice.
No more for me that dreaded whistle blast
for the bullet struck and did not whizz past.

Now all is silent and no bullets fly.
Remember us and why we had to die.
Place poppies up high for us year after year
and play the 'Last Post, ' so that all may hear.
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