Over the Top

Whistles scream sharp in the cold, grey dawn. Back pipes wailing as the boys

push on. Hey! Fixed bayonets. The sergeants cry. Ladders up,

boots shaking, but we climb sky high. Creeping barrage pounding ahead.

Shrapnel rain where the brave ones bled. Mud grips hard like a living

chain. But we rise through smoke, through blood, through pain.

Out into no man's land we run. Under the crack of the Maxim

gun. Barbed wire, small shells split the air. But courage roars

louder than fear or despair. From the Somme to Passchendaele is dead and ground.