Go chase them from their dugouts,
Go chase them from their trench,
bayonet all their Look outs,
ignore their dead’s foul stench.
Tomorrow you go over,
The top, that is my lads,
and there is very little chance,
of your return from France.
The rattle of machine guns,
displace a man with space,
That space, is Soon refilled,
with another of his race.
'No man's Land,' is...
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