In Flanders fields, and Kandahar,
In deepest Afghanistan,
Poppies bloom, the Flowers of War,
Blossom of the Savagery of Man.
In the former to commemorate the Fallen,
Who died amid battles roars,
And in the latter a source of income,
One of many reasons for local wars.
In a side street in Flanders,
An addict Afghan heroin injects,
By him walks a poppy wearing Veteran,
Who all the world respects.
At the setting of the sun and its rising,
With poppies we will remember them,
The fallen, and those who as its victims have fallen,
Who society looks down one and does condemn.