The Eleventh Hour

The Eleventh Hour

The silence is deafening at Eleven o’clock

The hour comes, the spurred fighting cock did crow

Then, the Reaper counts his dead, headless flock

Still, more wick ‘uns come, as stiff, snuffed ‘uns go

Forgive the Insane

The last lad shivers in the Devil’s own trenches

‘Quiet !’ it’s only son’s that scream out ‘mother’

And still the shit of fear, the shit that stenches

Dead pal Billy, old Chalky and my gassed brother

Forgive the Slaughterers  

God of the Christ man, the Trice man, the space God

The man who died, nailed to a trench with Belgium mud

Pour your forgiveness on Flander’s  piss stained sods

 That seeks, tastes and screams the vengeance of young blood

Forgive your Children

Harry Mills 11^th November 2011