Bloody battles fought in vain.
Said for glory, but it's a lie for shame.
Men they die, hit the ground.
With an awful cry or a muffled sound.
Gory grounds drenched with life.
Not what those highplaced men contrived.
But it is not they who fight the war.
It's the working man who settles the score.
As the poor man loses life and limb
Mankinds future was never so dim.
For honour, for glory, for freedom they call.
In final though, death captures all.
How years are wasted in the sand and mud
The flower of life is too soon cut.