All the cannons, all the smoke, early sunrise coming,
Scattered all about the landscape, men and boys lay dying,
Staining all the grass and meadow, blood on grass is showing,
Once again another day when young boys now are dying.

Fresh-faced babies, gathered in crowds, come to test their mettle,
Full of dreams and evening strolls, while whistling bullets flying,
Recalling days of past, short youth, none came here with dreams,
Planes with bombs and propellers sounding, war is now a flying.

Marching madness, ground war mounting, hear the babies crying,
Holding shoulders high and fast,  this meadow will be knowing,
For every blade of grass we see, the color green will be removing,
So, now proud solider, with head held high, begins now a crying.

The undertaker, this busy man, will begin to build the coffins,
While taking youth and squandering souls, bodies not lay lying,
What will be done and who  must die, when giving all they have residing,
Deep within, and made of wood, there lies the road of coffins.

More come soon, these fresh-faced children, ready to **** another,
Brother on brother, and unknown youth, will **** without shying,
No one know the mental mind when killing is now the sporting,
Girls at home, so pinning worth, will console one another.