They killed poor Jimmy this mornin’; there was hardly a drop of blood.
And many a tear was by brave men shed, as we knelt round him there in the mud.
He was the best and smartest of us all, you know, always with a smile on his face.
But no one’s smiling now, our Jimmy’s gone.
The dead are proof war is a waste.
It’s out there before us in no-man’s land; where the ground’s turnin’ white with men’s bones, That the hopes, dreams and ambitions of a whole generation died on.
They came for adventure and glory, but found horror and death in its place.
Brothers, sons, fathers, and husbands no more.
I’m sure they’d say war is a waste.
We wrapped him in his blanket; his mates bore him silently here,
Laid him gently on a stretcher and carried him back to the rear.
Now another man picks up his rifle, just as Jimmy took another man’s place.
Nobody knows like the next man in line,
Just how much war is a waste.
So, let’s raise a glass for Jimmy; drink, and remember the dead.
Then pour one more for the living ‘cause it could have been us instead.
In this latest war to end all wars, remember each name had a face.
And as row on row of white crosses show,
It will always be true - war is a waste.”