Feet marching through the ankle deep mud
Skin covered over in dry, crusted blood
All dreading the next coming downpour and flood
War holds no glory for me.

Rifles in slings, slung across backs
Our meagre rations, kept in our packs
Bodies of the dead covered in sacks
War holds no glory for me.

Disease abound, deep down in the trench
Flesh swollen and rottine, with a foul stench
Many of us queuing for the surgeon's bench
War holds no glory for me

All live in fear of the next attack wave
Mortars, shells, gas - some we cannot save
We remember those, who for our freedom gave
War holds no glory for me.

Sitting down here, slowly wasting away
I know that this may be but my last day
And now I have realised, and now I must say
Death holds no glory for me.