At the end of the war,
or at least, just before,
many had died,
before the war stopped mid stride,
for eleven o’clock may take its time.
When the war was ended,
the last man to be,
a foolish mistake none the less,
he walked right over,
and said the war was over,
and got shot,
for his watch had let him down one last time,
the many men,
they stood down all around,
and finally saw the other side.
For this is the first war,
the Great War,
the last, they hoped,
For when the time came they just launched all their shells,
and when they come down on those unfortunate men,
their lives were a waste after all.
A poet he fought and died in that war,
and died the day before,
but when his town celebrated,
a messenger came and told them,
your son is dead.