They spring up red
poppies from the dead,
flowered manhood
lost.

gas, gas boys quick
an ecstacy of fumbling
for gas mask boys
not clumsy bra.

till I knew I must die
never guessed I was
Born.

Cradle to grave, iron
ricebowl, half-life
of ease.

these poppies shall bloom
from my flesh too
(too soon, all too soon),
milky white ooze
of *****.

dishonour boys, or death,
how to choose
when too much choice
is ours.

too much boys, too much
luck,

we missed our war boys,
thank whatever gods
you may remember,
and gather your

honour boys, cup it in
both hands
and honour the warriors
who made us
these lands