Leaving For The Front

Before I die, I must just find this rhyme.
Be quiet, my friends, and do not waste any time.

We’re marching off in company with death.
I only wish my girl would hold her breath.

There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m glad to leave,
Now mother’s crying too, there’s no reprieve.

And now look how the sun’s begun to set.
A nice mass-grave is all that I shall get.

Once more the good old sunset‘s glowing red.
In thirteen days I’ll probably be dead.

by Alfred Lichtenstein

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