| Young men, soldiers, nineteen fourteen
|
| Marching through countries they’d never seen
|
| Virgins with rifles, a game of charades
|
| All for a children’s crusade
|
| Pawns in the game are not victims of chance
|
| Strewn on the fields of Belgium and France
|
| Poppies for young men, death’s bitter trade
|
| All of those young lives betrayed
|
| The children of England would never be slaves
|
| They’re trapped on the wire and dying in waves
|
| The flower of England face down in the mud
|
| And stained in the blood of a whole generation
|
| Corpulent generals safe behind lines
|
| History’s lessons drowned in red wine
|
| Poppies for young men, death’s bitter trade
|
| All of those young lives betrayed
|
| All for a children’s crusade
|
| The children of England would never be slaves
|
| They’re trapped on the wire and dying in waves
|
| The flower of England face down in the mud
|
| And stained in the blood of a whole generation
|
| Midnight in Soho nineteen eighty four
|
| Fixing in doorways, opium slaves
|
| Poppies for young men, such bitter trade
|
| All of those young lives betrayed |
| All for a children’s crusade |