This awful place below the ground,
Which is open to every sound,
Of shells and guns and the screaming Hun,
How much more do we have to bare,
This so called fighting trench warfare.

Over the top the order comes,
For us to charge the screaming Hun,
Just a couple of yards we went,
When all of a sudden it was all hell bent,
On lasting in this awful mud, and praying
To the Lord above
For help to keep us from all ills,
In this mud filled Flanders field.

Why on earth are we here, are we really that sincere,
In fighting off the evil Hun,
Knowing full well they are someone’s sons,
Just like us just young boys,
Who not long ago played with toys?
And now our toys have turned to guns,
To shoot and kill some mother’s son.

In this awful muddy trench,
There is all around an awful stench,
Of bodies that have succumb,
To the rats the weather and the Hun,
They are the remains of friends of mine,
Who really had such little time?
They were all just to young,
To loose their lives to the gun.
Never to see their mother’s tears,
These poor Tommies who have fallen here.

Will we ever learn that war is such an evil term?
To live like this from day to day,
Oh Lord my God we all pray,
Help us when it’s our time to go,
From this obnoxious life we know,
And never witness this again
This mud filled trench of dying men.