The Great War?

To war the lads, their colours flown,
in ranks and files of flesh and bone.
To marching songs, to battles roam,
hobnailed hurrahs on cobblestone.

Made men of boys and men made bold,
the bold to beasts into the fold.
To do or die, do what you’re told;
how easy, men, en masse, controlled.

Bayonets fixed and honed to slay,
to put and gut into the fray.
Wait not to weep where dead men lay
but butcher on, make proud this day.

Through flame and shell in metal hats,
to bits and pieces, splits and splats.
Through mustard mists and choking rats
and tally-hoed like psychopaths.

The howling pounders venting spleen,
young faces warped for Halloween.
Of gaping wounds in awe between
the dying screams and gangrene.

Unleashed the beast, dug in the spur,
and fought like packs of fang and fur.
With tooth and nail to slew the cur,
in madness lost what fighting for.

Another yard to victory,
to then retreat in misery.
For what? Pray tell, God’s honesty:
bear witness, mad! Stupidity!

The devil’s acres, no-man’s-land,
in mud and blood and bags of sand.
Of reeking rot, bewailed, be damned,
a hell on earth by man’s own hand.

The stretchered screams out of the scrum
and two by two their bearers run.
While doctors score, who’s lost and won
until the losses overcome.

Of those bereft of sense and limb,
of broken bones and blistered skin.
To use as props, what tales to spin; 
what left of them, with medals, pin.

And cowards shot, examples be,
for they not men of dignity.
Done onto them who’d try to flee
as one would cull the enemy.

The gilded ranks, stiff upper lips,
the game’s afoot with maps and tricks.
And all the while men bled betwixt
their arrogance and politics.

What left but wrecks, to home again,
God bless them all, each one, amen.
For blown apart the best of them
for empires, greed and noblemen.

And hoist the flags, bring out the bands.
Who won, who cares, who understands?
Of them, the lads, ‘neath foreign lands, 
too late the laying on of hands.

Let rise the larks where dead men dwell,
let plough the dray where once a hell.
Let poppies bloom where thousands fell
and dare to ask: for what? Do tell.