Where are those lips?

When marching off to the Kaiser’s war,

Plenty of girls; kisses galore.

But when hobbling back; one leg

And ne’er but half a face.

Where are those lips?

Those arms that embrace?

They look away, can’t bear to see

What this war has done to me.

Those that rushed to kiss, to hug,

Of that heady, reckless thrill to tell

Absent friends what they had missed,

Now cannot confront what I earned in hell?

Where are those lips so eager to kiss?

Those arms that embrace thrown by many a miss?

Sunk in the mire outside of Ypres.

Gone in a flash, devoured by pitiless mud,

Along with limb, and nose and chin,

And gallons and gallons of young British blood.

© John Sales 2009