Out here on the choppy sea,
watching Dover recede into the
gentle mist of England, all is not
We sail towards a harbour,
one that we have been told is as dark
Young men, comrades all, aboard this troopship.
How could they envisage the despair
that would cause them to weep while
listening to the dying screams
of their comrades who held the torch
of freedom so dear?
Hell it is; days, weeks, months of it.
How can a man withstand such
insanity yet rise up each morn
and stand tall at Ypres,Somme Passchendaele, Ly's,
Flanders field where so many remained?
All who survived would honour
friends that died scorched by freedom's torch.
Holding that light aloft,
it was only heavens embrace that quenched
the blazing glory in their souls each morning.
We few, we few left behind in hades know
the poppy red blows gently at the going
down of the sun and in the morning.
We will remember all our comrades who
fell in the hell of Flanders field and know
they fought and died for freedom.