Let us tell you of our adventure, they said.
Of war and all its horrors we've seen.
Dying dough boys screamed and moaned as they bled.

And the flash of mortar fire would glean,
displaying his numbers on our surface,
and the terracotta blood and drab green.

We are just a playbill for Satan's circus,
with no part lest our roll is through,
or did not perish in his wicked furnace.

And now, retired, no more to do.
But handed down to next of kin
til now I tell this story to you.

We are not just made of tin,
so many tales lay deep within.