A COUNTRY bled, no home exempted from frightful loss
Aye, even now the poppies do roam
But in Flanders fields there is no cross
It was all a game, a time of mirth
They’d see the Hun right off
But boy after boy fell to bloodstained earth
And in Flanders fields there is no cross.
There was no angel, they say, at Mons
Where England showed who’s boss
But on that Somme first day
Bled forty-thousand sons
Yet in Flanders fields there is no cross.
All heaven in a perfect sky
Meadows of lichen and moss
A scarlet river winding by
But in Flanders fields there is no cross.
Oh God, oh God, it could not be, could not be
And yet it was, it was.
Where now Haig and French and Joffre?
They are not in Flanders fields which bears no cross.
Mr D Adsett
Penlan
Penarth
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