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.
Copyright © Michelle Hewett | Year Posted 2019
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