Your necklace gleams in moonlight like the silver-barbed wire,
Machineguns trained at my chest, all threatening to fire,
it’s lucky I’m a fool. It’s blessed to be a fool.
I charge right in at you, over trenches and the guns,
The mortars strike my balance – there’s no way left to run,
And there’s nothing left of me when the roar is done.
Maybe you’ll find someone fit for digging out the mines,
to dig up bombs for a hundred years,
Or they step on one, and die,
And I wonder if the brain and eyes behind the guns
think of that young man, who charged in so bravely,
so dumbly led to slaughter, do they think of me and wonder?