by Damon Harper.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
In rotting corpses, row on row.
They mark our place, and where we lie,
For rot the creeping slime-moulds vie
With tunn'ling earthworms from below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We killed, were killed, saw flames below;
We writhed in pain, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
Be sure to fill his heart with woe.
With his cruel hand he took our lives,
So torture him, gouge out his eyes;
And make the land a barren bowl
Like Flanders fields.