Pro Patria Mori

Cold, hard rain beating down on the skull,

Tastes bitter as the night draws on.

Fallen foe, fallen friend,

There is no way to make amend.

Life for a life doesn’t work, you see,

Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori.

In the trenches, like lambs due to die,

We clamp up inside, let our emotions fly.

Tears, hate, Blast it, damn!

We’ve lost this war, if we give them our ham.

Then, at the cries of ‘Gas,’ we jump to the floor,

Knocking in our heads like the knocking of a door.

Cold, hard rain beating down on the skull,

Tastes bitter as the night draws on.

Fallen foe, fallen friend,

There is no way to make amend.

Life for a life doesn’t work, you see,

Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori.

And the last guttering rattle we hear,

Painful splinters in your ear.

Strikes you in the chest, once, twice,-

Thrice, you’re dead.

Out the spirits go, out through your head.

Away goes the painful knocking, only now are tears.

Cold, hard rain beating down on the skull,

Tastes bitter as the night draws on.

Fallen foe, fallen friend,

There is no way to make amend.

Life for a life doesn’t work, you see,

Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori.

Here we lie, on English soil,

Only above us, the angels toil.

Still as glass,

Under the grass,

Death mark’d, by only a cross,

We were only the country’s loss.

Cold, hard rain beating down on the soil

Tastes bitter, as the night draws to a spoil.

Fallen foes, fallen friends,

There no way to make amends.

But life for a life doesn’t work, you see;

Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori.