To a war that they’d never understand
Were sent men who hadn’t a clue
Because men behind doors make decisions
While the dying’s for me and for you.
So thousands went off into battle
To places that they’d never known
Over the top and shot down to die there
In fields where red poppies have grown.
Is there ever a point to this mayhem
I struggle to find one, I do
History will record that I stayed here
So it matters not, except to a few.
One in a group of poems recognising the centenary of WWI