I 'wrote' this in my head while standing at a remembrance day parade. That was over thirty years ago, (I was very young then,) but in all that time I have not changed a single word. My Great Grandfather survived the Battle of the Somme, many of his friends didn't.
The poppies grow in Flanders fields
On every soldier's grave.
They grow for every man who fell,
If cowardly or brave.
For death makes no distinction,
For number, rank or name.
From private up to General,
All corpses rot the same.