It was a cold, dark and wistful morning that chilly November
The 11th hour of the 11th day of 1918 is all I remember
The men line up for that final push
To be put to death inside the hoard of mush
Left Right as the woodpecker sighs
Being on the only tree in miles
The shell bombardments are Covering the land
Turning those Lively and brave men into piles
The whistle blows and the men erupt
like children on a funfair enjoying what not
But those few \"men\" who died in those final moments
are left to die and left to rot.
like Children..
But the Children seemed to have forgotten their troubles and scares
And after some time develop some thousand Mile stares
So the children of this time are now destroyed and capitulated
into what is now know as a mental illness
and the men are gone and gone for good
which is what is now known as the final push