Got this from a picture I have.

Men sit in the cutting
Where the train once ran
One stares straight upwards
He’ll be buried here, soon
Another with no legs on
Lies out in the open, spread
Five alive survive
Huddled by the muddy bank
Staring as if dead themselves
Or sleeping amid the noise
Of the shells roaring over
And the bursts raining earth
Passchendaele, Passion-dale

Men drowning in liquid mud
Torn apart, ripped to pieces
A dandelion blown by a child
Ten miles away a young  man runs
Near a town named Amerika
That will be the name
He gives to his train
When he goes to Poland
In just a few years
And the trees are just phone poles
Where a forest once did grow
And we’ll do it all over again
Because no one alive still knows

Just one moment in the
Third Battle of Ypres