Godlike? No. Human? Maybe.
Yet living above the bones of dead babies.
Who fell to their deaths from the top of the world,
The forgotten, the miscarried, the unfortunate boys and girls.
Now the babies lie with bullets,
Sanctity no longer exists.
Once upon a time, we were all for it,
Now we just wish this war would cease.
Fire! Called the Sergeant as the Gerry’s advanced.
Onward called the General, as the men became entrenched,
In the trenches and fell to their knees;
Some preyed to the lord above, others fell down silently.
Many days and many nights had come to pass
And still ol’ Blighty was under attack.
Churchill’s calls, spurred on a nation;
Whilst mothers and babies, were simply seeking salvation.
The babies cried, as the explosions filled the skies;
The poor boys tardiness, meant he had to find somewhere to hide
And pray he wasn’t killed by the bombs or the bullets.
Just hoping not to die in a watery grave.
For all that’s left in the bottom of your rivers,
Is babies bones and war souvenirs
