In Flanders fields grow poppies red
Stained by the blood of the youth now dead
Some who then could barely read nor write
But still marched bravely to the fight
They did not understand
For them the countries call to arms
Meant boys so young must meet demands
And for many that meant death
And others then  did come to fill the spaces
Left by those now gone
And in their turn they also shed their blood
In their turn died screaming  in liquid mud
As they died the blood they shed
Was the food on which the poppies fed
Poppies growing on Flanders fields
Flanders poppies, deepest red