I have looked into history,
and seen a field
it's a field,
where no wheat will yield.
It's a field
that saw a "Bloody War!
A war in which,
there has been none before.
Where is this field,
where now the poppy grows
that's rich in scent,
when the warm wind blows.
It was once a Green pasture,
known as Flanders Field!
but it is now the field
where no wheat will yield,
so rich in red
When the poppy blooms,
among the crosses,
of soldiers tombs.
This a field of Honor
to remember the dead.
Where the "Twenty Third Psalm"
was so often said.
In this Battle scared field,
that was once, No Mans Land!
men fought with courage,
with the help,
of Gods hand.
The carnage and death,
that was within the hell fire
mans only protection,
were trenches and barbed wire.
Men charged to the sound,
of the Battle Cry!
not one of them knowing,
if this was their last good bye.
Thousands died, in this
once green field,
this field where no
wheat will yield.
Dressed in medals,
are the men that survived,
what thoughts they share
of their comrades that died
in a field that saw a Bloody War,
one that could be heard
as far as England's shore.
This then is the field,
where no wheat will yield,
yet still the poppy grows
so rich in scent,
when the warm wind blows.
For the eleventh hour, on the eleventh day, on the eleventh month
