Where They Speak French

It is not our war to fight Yet onwards we go without flight Carrying man as best we can Through bog and trench Ignoring the stench Eager to please but dropping to our knees When bullets and grenades end our days. I was a faithful steed I did my best to please As I lay on the ground I listen to the sound of explosions cracking overhead. My master is no more he's beside me on the floor. He's missing a leg and half of his head. As I take my last gasp I continue to ask Why does man go to war, what's it all for but death and destruction and to my deduction, no winners just loss and sadness. Where's the end to this madness I will never know, as I've passed with my master In that trench where they speak French.