War

War, war, war. 
The thing that makes families poor. 
It kills people's sons, husbands and brothers,
Yet that can mean quite little to others.
The men are frequently dying.
The majority of them crying.
If they told anyone that they weren't terrified,
They would have lied.
Their dreams are plagued with worry,
The sleeping ones oblivious to the rats that scurry. 
The trenches are muddy and wet,
But these men have a while to go, yet.
Trudging through the sludge,
Their once-pristine uniform begins to smudge. 
People think they have no fear,
Yet they cannot see their fallen tear. 
The men are confused and dazed,
Their years of happiness before, hazed. 
The only sound they can hear is guns,
All the way through the days to the setting of the suns.
Kids are also affected,
Millions of them needing to be protected. 
They're now refugees, 
Whilst their parents are being made casualties.
War is a dreadful, dreadful thing,
And no one knows what tomorrow will bring.