The final Push

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