Familiar stench of decay.
Death clings about this earth, like a cloak.
Concertina wire wraps the dead as maxim fire rings out.

One million dead dreams mark the field, no Valkyries call today.

Over the top, death's embrace.

Field is desolate.
Bleached bones litter the hills.
This stench I adore.


Agonizing end awaits.
Scores of men are torn apart.


No Florence Nightingale to save us if she could.
We're all damned.


This cannonade, abhorred and likened to the roars of beasts, who lust for more dead.


The waters of the Somme congeal with putrefied (putrefied) decomposition fluid.
Death! Nothing but death!
Miles of maggot suffering.


We held god so close.
We were cut down, after the whistle blew.

In our prime, we lay bleeding in the mud.
All our dreams are dead.