We walk outside with our heads bowed low,
against the November chill.
They tell us to remember them,
and remember them we will.
We remember all those who fought,
in that cold, violent war.
We give our thanks for freedom
and poppies litter the floor.
The trumpets begin their song,
and the strings tug at our hearts.
The boy climbs to the podium.
'In Flanders Fields,' he starts.
The soldiers in the corner stand,
flags poised, to the sky they tilt.
Their caps low, their arms out wide,
but soon they begin to wilt.
The Reverend says his prayer
as we all bow our heads.
And we remember, we remember
how only the poppies stayed bright red
'They shall not grow old! They shall not grow old!'
His vioce booms over the grounds.
And in the morning, we remember.
Then the Last Post sounds.
We stay as quiet as can be,
as our hands ball into fists.
The cold bites our ears and toes
under the November mist.
Two minutes pass, the reveille sounds.
We all let out a sigh.
Souls of the Righteous sing and shiver
then slowly fade and die.
The head master speaks, loud but kind:
'For all that makes for peace.'
The Reverend returns, 'AMEN.' he says.
And then all the voices cease.
We walk inside with our heads bowed low,
so we can talk where no one will hear.
They tell us to remember them,
honor, love, remember them!
But we forget until next year.
God bless our troops!!! 
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