People may try to glorify war,

But it is death, and nothing more.

The screams, the gore, the gnarled limbs,

The loss of life, hell chiming in.

When the mines cough, legs fly off,

The screams of war, the blood our chore.

The blood that was spilled to take that hill,

The people that we shot and killed.

All for a hill, with no life of its own.