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1917

Saul Blease
Language: English




Fighting over,
a brick coloured stain.
After the shells,
all that remains
A foreign field,
a lake of mud.
Tinted red,
with good mens blood

In a place
called Passchendaele
In a town
called Passchendaele

You feel the dread,
you smell the fear.
Grasping a photo,
of all you hold dear
Over the top,
once more we go
Shot down or drown,
the reaper sows

In a place
called Passchendaele
In a hell
called Passchendaele

Withdrawn now from the front
Those that have born the brunt
Revolution, mutiny
What, pray tell will come of me?

Don’t they know, we’ve had our fill
Tell them I don’t wanna kill
Tommy’s now, strapped to a gun
Field punishment number one

In a place
called Passchendaele
Through a hell
called Passchendaele

March along the Menin Road,
Hellfire corner fed and done.
Puts down a sandbag, longs for home
and blows his foot off with a gun

The court martial they don’t care,
Six minutes, and he’s been tried.
At dawn’s light he hears the prayer,
The paper square has been tied

Lack of morale fibre
Example needed, to be seen
For the honour of the regiment
he’s shot dead at just nineteen



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