Do they still dig up bodies from
The killing Fields of Flanders,
Bones of those long ago
Enticed and betrayed,
Lost generation, sold and
Slaughtered for no real cause.
Do they inter those bodies
Amongst the precise rows
Of immaculate graves,
Each topped wth it's
Serene white cross marked
With Number Rank Name,
Or the Unknown Soldiers tombs
For those as yet unidentifed,
Those treated as cannon fodder,
The Butchers' Bill in life,
To be shamelessly and cynically
Too late honoured in death.
Did they learn any lessons,
Were promises made kept
Or are those Fields of Crosses
Just a sad and mute reminder
Of how easily it could and
Does happen again and again.
Once a year they parade their
National outpourings of grief
While, from the latest leaders
Crocodile tears shed as they take
Their annual break from Calculating
The continued profits of death.
