'to the memory of those massacred at the Somme'
What sunrise set before those young men fell?
Facing insurmountable odds they squelched
through mud to fight a pointless bloody campaign,
because 'the enemy' was there.
The Generals safe in tents gave orders,
and returned to coffee and cigars.
They weren't overly concerned as they were
following orders too from 'higher up' - where
in cosy carpeted rooms old men in morning
suits sent despatches, tapped their pipes,
and refilled them.
The King in his castle secure and whisky warm,
telephoned his Minister for War.
'How goes it at the Somme? '
The answer was succinct and like the colour grey.
'As well as can be expected, Sir',
'Our casualties? ' the King enquired.
'Oh? ' was all the King could say.
Meanwhile at the Somme,
their bodies soaked in mud, and blood and rain,
420,000 unsung heroes died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.