Butcher's Tale (Western Front 1914)

by Chris White

A butcher, yes that was my trade
But the King's shilling is now my fee
A butcher I may as well have stayed
For the slaughter that I see

And the preacher in his pulpit
Sermoned, 'Go and fight, do what is right'
But he don't have to hear these guns
And I bet he sleeps at night

And I can't stop shaking
My hands won't stop shaking
My arms won't stop shaking
My mind won't stop shaking
I want to go home
Please let me go home

And I have seen a friend of mine
Hang on the wire like some rag toy
Then in the heat the flies come down
And cover up the boy

And the flies come down in Gommecourt,
Thiepval, Mametz Wood, and French Verdun
If the preacher, he could see those flies
Wouldn't preach for the sound of guns

And I can't stop shaking
My hands won't stop shaking
My arms won't stop shaking
My mind won't stop shaking
I want to go home
Please let me go home