In England’s fields no poppies grow,
Chemical fertilisers have seen to that,
The land is still owned by the feudal rich
And the larks, still, sometimes, bravely, sing
Scarce heard amid empty political posturings..

No-one listens to the 'glorious" dead. Lip service instead.
When the ‘great and good’ pretend to remember
They dont recall the ordinary Tommy Atkins like my granddad, Jack Prince, machine gunner on the Somme
Whose descendants still have no share in England’s wealth.

Still it is made abundantly clear, that hoi polloi trespassers are not welcome here and will be prosecuted.                While politicians protect the priviliged few 
Veterans queue at foodbanks in the rain,
Very few people understand their sacrifice:

 Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq all the bloody same:

For these men life can never be the same again
Every day we break faith with these dead broke
Blokes, who still can not sleep, nor find repose
In any land where the bloody red poppy grows.