Lumps of Rotting Clay

No man's Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light
Never a house, never a hedge
No man's Land from edge to edge

Never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of morning air
Only some lumps of rotting clay
That were my friends or foemen yesterday

What are the bounds of no man's Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand
A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the eastern hills

Christ, thy name is Panzer!