M A Y   1 9 4 0

The Poppy-heads are bowed with woe, they
do not understand,
Once more they feel the brutal heel, the ravages
of man;
The peace they knew for just a spell, has dis-
appeared o'er night,
And hideous war has come instead, to crush
with cruel might.

The Poppies once again are stained with human
blood and tears
The "Deathless Army" - 'neath the sod are stirred
again with fears;
Not even sleep are they allowed, o'erhead they
hear the guns,
Now restless souls of fathers seek, the restless
souls of sons.

The Poppies now are silent, dead to all the
world 'twould seem,
And Flanders fields are barren wastes, where
Poppies once had been;
The powdered dust of Poppy-heads, is scattered
to earth's end,
Each speck a prayer to Him above, that wisdom
will descend.

And yet will Poppies rise again, with aureole
of flame,
Like symbols from the dead beneath, as once
before they came;
Unconquered banners will unfurl across the
blood-stained sod,
Proclaiming in their righteousness the Majesty
of God.

The Poppies message ever stands, it calls to
you and me,
Stand firm! And keep the torch alight, the torch
of Liberty;
Let every day be "Poppy Day", 'till darkness
turns to light,
So we may sleep full justified, in man's triumph-
ant right.