A thousand men went over the top
for freedorn's flags and glory true,
to piper's tunes they fell on the wire
in rows and lines amongst the mire,
and mortally tired their rifles laid down
as democracy's tune the howitzers played.
A thousand men went over
to mustard gas and shrapnel hot,
and spilled their guts on the waiting wire
and blinded by the choking clouds,
wrapped forever in Flanders mud
where once bright poppies grew and bloomed.
We sat entranced us
by Grandfather's shattered and much wounded knee,
as he related the tales of the past
of cannon's roar and the machine-gun's quick blast,
a thousand men went over the top.
But why Grandad are we randomly stopped?
That my children is the
price that we paid
as mortally done our rifles down laid,
so black-booted men in fast motor cars
could randomly stop and check on your pass,
that is the price of freedom my dears
but why it is so, I'm not really clear.
© John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR