Each year the numbers don’t decrease
You would expect that they would
As age the old ones get release
And the peace that they always should

The faces always younger get
Yet fifty thousand out today
Each one with all the others met
Intent one thing, their tributes pay

Remember friends that they have known
Whose resting place is far away
The cold cruel sea. the desert sand
Now hold these memories in their sway

All day their hearts filled with respect
Memories that do not stir by half
Always they come to recollect
November at the Cenotaph