He sits and watches his crimson flow,
As he feels his furrowed forehead glow,
Consternation slowly dawns just then,
As his beating heart falls silent when,
His body, cold with sweat, he’s felt,
As he fumbles with his now tight belt,
Trying to push back coils of his entrails,
Into the bloody hole he wildly flails,
To return his guts into their gory hollow,
He fails, as life drags back deep sorrow,
The trench now begins to fill with blood,
This damned war that by Christmas should,
“Be over by Christmas,” the Generals said,
Now all he feels is white hot lead,
He dies in pain and alone at last,
As his pals fade fast into the past,
None are left to go home to kith or kin,
This war in France that none could win,
He joins the millions now laid low,
As he sits and watches his crimson flow.