He sits in his trench in a faraway land
There's a knife in his boots and a gun in his hand
His facial expressions filled with fear and with pain
As he sits in his trench in the pouring rain
He sits in his trench in the freezing cold
His thoughts turn to home and the days of old
He wipes at his brow and shuffles his boot
As he grips at his gun he's been ordered to shoot
The trench is now empty
There's a distant trumpet sound
Boots trudge home across blood stricken ground
One failed to return do we need to ask why
It was the man in the trench
That was willing to die.