The prisoners of war,
Who are very poor.
Who are covered in mud,
Who cough up blood,
Were gassed,
In the past.
Suddenly die,
That made their families cry.
Are thrown in the back of a truck,
Where others they will chuck
Then to the clinic they go
To see if their blood will flow
Their families have nothing to remember their soldiers
Whose head was held high on their shoulders
Is that why we have poppies which are red?
To remember those who are dead?