One lone poppy sitting on a battlefield
Is thinking to itself,
Why in all the colours do I have to be red?
It resembles all the blood that has been bled.
Why am I on a desolate battlefield
Where all the fighting is to be dealt?
A last primal cry is all I hear,
As blood and death are always near.
A smouldering fire, a touch of heat,
A screaming cry, a sign of defeat.
The ‘Jerry’ will be there, dark and dim,
As the soldiers faces are always grim.
Why do I have to be on a grave?
Where fighters die, scared but brave.
Why? Why does the fighting never end,
As the dark war was starting to mend?
As the poppies sway and bow,
I will make a simple vow,
No poppy big or small,
Will stand here not rising tall.
We are not silly flowers,
Because we have great powers.
One lone poppy sitting in a battlefield,
Is finally not alone…