What I Learned At Passchendaele Museum

The silent cities of the dead were speechless Till all were gathered in, here given tongue Trenches had wattle walls of hazel, willow Topped off with sandbags where fat vermin throng Jews don't bring flowers to graves, they're for the living They place small stones upon the headstone top Les Gueules Cassées, les pauvres ‘Broken faces' False eyes, false noses, raw as mutton chop In 1917, Chinese Labour entered They cleared the battlefields of rotting dead And delicately carved art on shell cases ‘Where's my beloved? ' in the land of lead.