Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows,
Chest puffed with pomp to gloat on gloried loss;
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

At cenotaphs bedecked in bloodied rose
Bouquets, Lord Mayors regale in golden gloss:
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows.

Prime Ministers parading TV shows
Glory in hanging ratings on the dross:
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

Young men talk tough of national pride; old woes
Won't heal by stoning rolling migrant moss;
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows.

Recall dull medals hung on fettered boughs,
Lest we forget the names of those embossed:
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

Tread light through evergreen and tranquil rows,
Where heroes rest beneath white painted cross;
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows,
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.