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.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Online) - Published: May 14th, 2025 07:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments5
Another wonderous write with flare. The first line particularly but much of the poem reminded me of Eric Bogle's The band played waltzing Matilda. My grandfather was in that war and you describe well the trench warfare of the time. Yes indeed I had a great grandfather in the Civil War, grandfather in WWI, father in WWII and they all said when it was over it was just a lot of foolishness. A wonderful antiwar message. So well written another fave.
The epitome of foolishness and the consequences, horrendous, beyond comprehension. Lovely to hear from you again and your words are very much appreciated.
All the best,
Tony.
Never had family, to my knowledge, in WWI. My grandfather served in WWII and Korea. Well done on this, Tony. 🌹👏
I had an uncle in WWII, Uncle Tim. Claimed to have been the last man to leave Dunkirk, that being said, he was well known for his tall tales and the more whiskey he had, the taller they got. Great to hear from you again and thank you ever so much.
Do take care now,
Tony.
Yes. I have an uncle with those same kind of tales around the same kind of whistle wetting! LOL! Great times around great people with great stories. You are most welcome, my friend!
Not great at all. Had family that served in each war and that brought nothing good to our family. 🕊️🙏🏻
Not great indeed and the only thing to come out of it was WWII. Kind of you to drop by and it is very much appreciated.
All the best,
Tony.
Most welcome and all the best to you as well🕊🙏🏻
I've had a number of goes at this: you have topped the lot, Tony.
Thank you very much, Dave, don't give up now.
You are in fine fettle, I trust,
Tony.
GREAT WRITE
Delighted you enjoyed this one and I do thank you ever so much for your visit.
All the best,
Tony.
most welcome
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