• The days are long the nights are harsh our feet feel just like lead. The men are tired as wounded come in most of them are dead.

    We sit around the campfire and talk about our past missing our families missing our friends and hope this war wont last.

    We lay inside our tents to sleep the ground is wet and cold Dreaming of the lovely day when we go marching home.

    We go to battle in the morn and march there all the way hoping that afterwards we live another day.

    When this war is over and many men have died and the families of the lost have hung their heads and cried.

    Ill be standing at the front for all of those In pain just take my hand and we'll go home and you'll never cry again.