More than fifty thousand names
Are carved on Ypres' Menin gate
Of soldiers who have no known graves
Just their destiny and date
Witness and last testament
Name and rank and regiment
Is now all that survives
From so many squandered lives
And for every name inscribed
The poor bereaved were left to mourn
The passing of all those who died
With no white cross on tended lawn
No place to go to contemplate
The sacrifice this wicked waste
No footprint left to show where once they trod
Allegedly known unto god
From Ypres Arras Aisne and Somme
Six unknown soldiers were exhumed
A blindfold general picked one man
And reverently they brought him home
Six black horses drew the hearse
Through silent London crowds immersed
In deepest thought belief or wishful prayer
That it might be their own boy there
The metal tyres on the carriage wheels
Played the tuneless requiem
The sky as grey as bayonet steel
Above the sombre hatless men
One more enemy to kill
That remaining sense of guilt
That through it all somehow they had survived
Returned to mothers sweethearts wives
Familiar streets their own backyards
Their medals and all praise ignored
Relieved to be his honour guard
And walk with him their true reward
While far from pomp and circumstance
Across the autumn fields of France
The trenches start to slowly fill and fade
The bloody page turned by the ploughman's blade
Thankfully we'll never know
If he was constant strong or frail
Scared or brave in equal parts
Country tanned or city pale
A carefree youth or thoughtful lad
Not wholly good or wholly bad
A bomb does not judge how you played your part
A bullet stops a lions heart
With softest cloth and gentlest broom
To sweep and wipe cathedral dust
Like dried tears from this marble tomb
Take care for he was one of us
In perfect irony and grief
The bride's bouquet becomes a wreath
And wrapped beneath dark angels folded wings
Tommy Atkins rests with kings