Blood on the Sand
The dead, they lie upon the beach,
Their blood, it flows like wine.
Bullets, its decanter,
Glasses? Barbed wire, mines.
…
To the butcher, sent like cattle,
His cleaver? Bombs and shells.
To St Peter, all will utter,
"I've served my time in Hell."
…
So silence comes at last again,
Upon the bloody sands.
Its children are the fallen,
Sanctified now, this land.