Look at the poppy, and it flaming red,
It is the symbol to our wounded, and our dead;
It grows on the land, torn up by war,
Hoping it wouldn't happen, never any more.
There were no markers for those brave men,
But that red poppy always flowers again;
Not like those young brave men, who gave their life
In a war of hate, torture and strife.
When a red poppy is seen growing in a field
Your memories return - what war does reveal,
But those young brave lads, who did never return,
Feel no pain, but left a lesson for others to learn.
Those who returned, blind, limbless and with pain,
But you never ever hear them complain;
They were proud to have one their part,
And held their memories and that poppy deep down in their heart
The poppy which is sold, just once a year, by volunteers
Helps to protect those who were disabled, and allays their fears.
Employment, Independence, Love, and some joy,
That's what they fought for when they were just a boy.
Making that poppy employs those same men,
Whose body grows old, but their memories never forgotten.
They want no medals, or money, just one thing to retain:
Their pride and their honour, added to their name.
The blood-red poppy is precious to a soldier's heart,
And to the Royal British Legion for doing their part;
But to see what is done, behind the scenes
Would make other nerves tingle, even cry and scream.
A poppy is not scented; the beauty is in its red,
For us to remember our disabled and our dead.
The poppy will always flower once a year,
And so will the pride of those lads who had no fear.