And all was quiet round the trenches.
The wind whistled down the line,
And we waited for the Frenches.
Twas the hour before Christmas,
And we were starting to freeze.
There lay a blanket of frost,
And dead were the trees.
Twas the hour of Christmas,
And we watched, listened and waited.
Like hawks we were,
With the fearful silence, we hated.
Twas the hour of Christmas lunch,
No sound and still we waited.
No sight and still we spied,
No food and still we hated.
Christmas brunch, lunch and afternoon tea were gone,
The moans and groans of stomachs were awaiting dinners.
The minds were losing power,
And we wondered if we were still the winners.
Finally we were given permission to eat,
Twas like a colony of ants.
We ate and ate and ate,
While realising we couldn�t feel our pants.
Twas the final hour of Christmas,
Twas the season to be jolly.
Twasn�t the hour to sleep,
Twasn�t the season for mad folly.
Twas like a sudden rush of thunder,
With a blinding flash of lightning red.
We rose like a tidal wave.
And emptied clips of lead.
Surrounded by death,
We made our last stand.
Driven with adrenalin,
We died on foreign land.
Tis the night before Christmas,
All was silent down the lane.
The wind whipped our faces,
As we waited to die again and again.
No one wins in war,
We live the nightmare again and again.
No one escapes the horror,
We die in pain.
Sons, husbands and fathers walked out that door,
When they didn�t even know what for.
Daughters, wives and mothers watched them go,
In foreign lands they will kill their foe,
But none at home will know.
It�s like watching a part of you walk away,
You wish to see them every day,
But know you can�t, nothing you do or say.
You prey for their safety every night,
Prey they don�t get frostbite,
And win their final fight.
So that they can come home,
To see their garden gnome,
And away from that deadly Somme.
They write as often as they can,
Along with every other man,
And tell you what isn�t on the ban:
�To my dearest love,
Today I saw a dove.
And I thought of you,
And what we will do.
What we will do when this war is over,
We could move and live in Dover?
Four days on the front line,
And I have seen one single mine,
But I am still alive and fine.�
It brings a tear to your eye,
When someone goes without saying goodbye,
When they get shot and die.
You wouldn�t know what to do if they died,
You would need a guide,
All you would want to do is curl up and hide.
You would feel so alone, so empty,
You wouldn�t be able to give out another key,
Unless you found another me.
The doorbell rings,
Your heart grows wings
And moves to your throat.
Is it a telegram?
Or is it your young man?
And all was quiet round the trenches.
The wind whistled down the line,
As we waited for the Frenches.
Twas the hour before Christmas,
And we were starting to freeze.
There lay a blanket of frost,
And dead were the trees.
Twas the hour of Christmas,
And we watched, listened, and waited.
Like hawks we were,
With the fearful silence, I hated.
Twas the hour of Christmas lunch,
No sound and still we waited.
No sight and still we spied,
No food and still we hated.
Christmas brunch, lunch and afternoon tea were gone,
The moans and groans of stomachs were awaiting dinners.
The minds were losing power,
As we wondered if we were still the winners.
There was nothing in view but bereavement,
A slow rumble of rocks started to grow louder.
Chaos started to rise like fire climbing a building,
�Not to worry, it�s a false alarm,� cried Sir.
Twas the final hour of Christmas,
Twas the season to be jolly.
Twasn�t the hour to sleep,
Twasn�t the season for mad folly.
Twas like a sudden rush of thunder,
With a blinding flash of lighning red.
We rose like a tidal wave,
And emptied clips of lead.
Surrounded by death,
We made our last stand.
Driven with adrenaline,
We died on foreign land.
Tis the night before Christmas,
All was silent under the cover,
The wind whipped our faces,
As we waited to die over and over.
No one wins in war,
We live the nightmare again and again.
No one escapes the horrors within,
As we die in pain!
It comes to us all.
For some, not soon enough,
For others, out like a puff.
Some go quick;
Some go slow;
We don�t get to pick,
Just how soon we go.
Surrounded by death,
Anywhere and everywhere,
There�s no escape,
It�s like a living nightmare:
But worse!
Some fear death,
Others welcome it.
Death is our only friend in this Hellhole,
So we should embrace it like a long lost friend.
Most get used to it,
Others go insane.
Doctors say rest is the only cure,
But I say there is another door.
You know what�s worse than the nightmares?
The real thing!
It�s something non of us can bear,
To go back to the Hellish fighting.
All day, everyday.
It�s like sitting in a trench,
With a rifle in hand,
Just sitting and waiting to gain no-man�s land.
Sitting like a snake in its hole,
Waiting for its prey within.
Preparing to make the first step to be a hero;
But first we must stay low.
For we�ll see more unnecessary death before our time is out,
While here, there�s no time to fool about.
Finally the shelling stops,
And we get ready to go over the tops.
The whistle blows;
If it�s our time,
We�ll soon know.
The most powerful of them all:
Field Marshall Haig.
Behind the line was his hall.
To accompany him:
General Smith and Colonel Burman.
In the hope of a win,
Orders come and go!
Carrying out commands,
On the front line,
Are the bravest of them all:
Known as the naughty nine.
Just like a nursery rhyme,
A Captain, Corporal and seven Privates.
Knew it was time,
To go knocking on Heaven�s door.
Forward towards the dead trees,
Forward towards the machine guns.
Or back on our hands and knees,
Back away from the Huns.
But there was no option,
The orders were to advance at all costs.
They couldn�t care less if we were gone,
They just don�t want any more lost.
Moving on to where death is rotten,
We become alone,
We become forgotten,
We have no choice but to carry on.
If the attack was successful,
Who do you think should be decorated?
The Captain? Corporal? Or Privates all?
It doesn�t matter because we�re all gone!
A lot of brave soldiers lose their lives,
As officers do the planning without the thinking,
And get rewarded for it.
So why do we do the dying?
Just by signing up.
We never knew how gory,
We would be, all blown up.
At the age of 18,
We were only kids back then.
With no such thing as a canteen,
And only a trench for a den.
Always being watched,
Not being able to move.
Our weapons always being cocked,
Not being able to soothe.
Nothing but rats,
During the day.
Nothing but bats,
Throughout the night.
No washing for three months.
No movement from our bays,
All for being at the fronts.
The constant bombardment of shell,
Like a wailing two year old,
Bought us one step closer to Hell,
As we wrestled with the cold.
The blanket of smoke,
Started to clear.
There were no folk,
For us to hear.
Only fearful silence.
There were no groans,
Just my deafening heartbeat.
We had taken that final leap,
We made it to the gate.
No more living in a heap,
Decided, was our fate:
Our fist step was our last.