I try and dream of fields of green,
from my prairie childhood.
But it doesn't come so easy,
midst these fields of mud and blood.

Six months ago in a Calgary inn,
we sat drinking on the benches,
now here we are as winter comes,
slowly rotting in the trenches.

King George he called,
and we all stood up,
proud young Canadian men.
It seemed like a big adventure,
at least it did back then.

But here we sit in Flanders Field,
slowly drowning day by day,
a mind can't help but escape and think,
there must be a better way.

I write this now so in years to come,
you'll know about this day.
The world will know of Passchendaele,
and of the price we paid.

If I should fall and die today,
tell my mother I fought well.
Take me home to Canada,
don't leave me in this hell.