Children’s Crusade
Young men, soldiers. Nineteen fourteen.
Marching through countries they'd never seen.
Virgins with rifles, a game of charades.
All for a children's crusade.
Pawns in the game are not victims of chance,
Strewn on the fields of Belgium and France.
Poppies for young men, death's bitter trade.
All of those young lives betrayed.
The children of England would never be slaves.
They're trapped on the wire and dying in waves.
The flower of England face down in the mud
And stained the blood of a whole generation.
Corpulent generals safe behind lines.
History's lessons drowned in red wine.
Poppies for young men, death's bitter trade.
All of those young lives betrayed.
All for a children's crusade.
The children of England would never be slaves.
They're trapped on the wire and dying in waves.
The flower of England face down in the mud
And stained the blood of a whole generation.
Midnight in Soho. Nineteen eighty four.
Fixing in doorways, opium slaves.
Poppies for young men, death's bitter trade.
All of those young lives betrayed.
All for a children's crusade.
