The Somme - 1916
Proud I was, to join up and fight for my Country.
The khaki uniform, the regimental badge.
Then I saw Charlie. He bled to death, poor sod,
no one to help him,
he was just cannon fodder.
Are we winning Sarge?
Stuck in this filthy trench, socks saturated, serge wet,
soul soaked in despair.
What're we fighting for Sarge?
I'd write home, but they'd most likely never receive it,
and even a letter would be plastered with mud
before it even got as far as the envelope.
Ammo's low Sarge!
Firing at mirages, floating far off in a mist,
ethereal bodies.
Call this life, mate!
Nah! Living death!
They said it'll be over by Christmas.
Do you believe that Sarge?
Hope so, cos all we have left is 'hope'!
poem by Ernestine Northover
Added by Poetry Lover
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